Death and Restoration (23 page)

And it was a pity they couldn’t have used a professional, rather than Menzies. Someone like Bruno Mascholino, for example, would have been delighted to help, in exchange for a month or two off his sentence, and would have done a much better job. But he didn’t know what to paint; only Menzies had studied the thing with any amount of care, when he was thinking about his restoration job. So, despite the disadvantages, he was the only person who could help. And even persuading him had been hard work.

“I told him I would issue a statement totally exonerating him from any involvement in this business; criticize the press for being vindictive and use all Bottando’s influence with the Beni Artistici to get him the Farnesina contract.”

“Not a bad bargain. Is he the right person for the job?”’

“He can make that ceiling look like Walt Disney for all I care at the moment. I don’t even know if he’s the right person for this job. But he is the only one. What do you think?”’

Argyll scratched his chin and pondered for a moment. “It might work,” he said cautiously. “As he says, his great advantage is the dirt. And the fact that no one involved has ever seen it out of its frame, and that Mary Verney will assume it’s just been restored by a total philistine. I’m coming to think he’s not quite such a slash and burn man as they say. He’s got a delicate touch. In fact, I’ve quite grown to like him. He’s an awkward sod, but not nearly as repellent as he seems. We had quite a nice long chat, in between the pounding and the sawing.”

“Good,” Flavia said sarcastically. “I’m glad you managed to squeeze in a bit of the old male bonding. But will he finish in time? That’s the only thing that concerns me at the moment.”

Argyll thought, then nodded. “I think so. It’s become a challenge. There might be a few rough edges, but he’ll finish. I hope.”

Mikis rang the next morning, and Mary followed instructions dutifully, and with some trepidation. The usual phone call from Louise had not come through and she was sick with worry. But she wasn’t going to let him know that. Instead, she calmly put the receiver down, walked out of her room and went to the nearest public phone.

“What about my grandchild?”’

“All in good time.”

“Now is a very good time.”

“She is perfectly safe, of course, and has been moved closer to her home. You will get a call immediately after this if everything is well. Now, do you have that icon?”’

She took a deep breath, “Yes,” she said. “That is, I will have it in an hour.”

“Where is it?”’

“That’s none of your business. Trade secrets.”

“Don’t play games with me, Mrs Verney. I want to know where it is.”

“And I am telling you that it is none of your business. I will pick it up in an hour and give it to you later today. That’s all you need to know. I’m not having you killing someone else. What did you do that for? It was stupid and unnecessary. All it did was stir the police up.”

There was a snort from the other end. “I thought he had the picture and was lying when he told me he didn’t. I wanted to teach him a lesson.”

“And I suppose you’ll finish off with me?”’

Charanis chuckled. “Oh, dear me, no. We are partners, don’t you remember? I’d never do that to a partner. Besides, who knows when you might come in useful again. A woman of your talents. And such an unlikely person as well. Who would ever suspect you?”’

“The Rome police, for one.”

“Ah, yes. So they do. What happened?”’

“They pulled me in. Quite right too. This has been such a disaster I might as well have begged them to arrest me. Fortunately, all they have is strong suspicion. But I want this over and done with before they get anything more. So let’s get on with it. If you want the icon, you have to keep to the deal. Let Louise go.”

“I have to see it first.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Oh, yes, it is. You will show me the picture. From a sufficient distance, if you wish.”

She thought fast. “Very well. In an hour and a half you should be by the Ponte Umberto on the Lungotevere Marzio side. By the bus stop. I will come there and show you the picture. Then you will release Louise. When I have confirmation from her mother that she is free and unharmed, I will tell you where to get it.”

There was a long pause from the other end.

“One hour, then,” he said.

Mary Verney put down the phone, her heart beating hard. Now came the difficult bit.

“There we are. What do you think? Of course, it’s a bit rough.”

Dan Menzies stood back nervously, and allowed Flavia to pick up the icon and turn it over in her hands.

“The face isn’t right,” he went on nervously, like a chef fishing for compliments on his work.

Flavia studied the face carefully.

“And some of the scratches and scraped bits aren’t perfect,” he added. Flavia switched her attention to these as well.

“But I’m quite pleased with the back. Quite pleased. Although with a bit more time …”

Flavia put it down, stood back and nodded. “I think you’ve done a great job,” she said eventually. “Better than I could have hoped for.”

“Do you? Do you really?”’ Menzies said gratefully. “Of course, it is pretty good. Not many people could have done that, not in the time. Someone like d’Onofrio, you know. He’d still be picking the wood.”

“We chose well,” Flavia said reassuringly. “I’m delighted. There is one thing, though. It still smells of paint, a bit. Is there anything you can do about that? I hope it won’t matter, but you never know. We have some latitude as Mary Verney will think you’ve been restoring it, but I reckon she will spot it if there is too much.”

“How long have we got?”’

She looked at her watch. “Fifteen minutes maximum.”

Menzies thought for a second. “Microwave,” he said.

“Pardon?”’

“Stick it in.”

“Do you want it switched on?”’

“God, no. I don’t want to cook it. I just want a fairly airtight container.”

He fussed around fetching ingredients, and put them into a small metal bowl with a candle underneath.

“What’s that?”’

“Incense. Covers a multitude of smells and gives anything the true odour of sanctity. Plus one or two other ingredients that will smoke and give off a smell.”

“Such as?”’

Menzies grinned. “Dirty socks. Wool ones. Old friend taught me that. Ten or fifteen minutes should be enough to neutralize the smell of paint. Again, not a permanent job, but it should get us through the day. The knack is to make sure they smoulder, and don’t burst into flame. Otherwise I’ll have to start again.”

Certainly, the smell that came out of the microwave when he opened it up a quarter of an hour later had no traces of paint in it. And it was equally evident that the microwave would never be quite the same again, but no matter. Expenses would cover it, if all went well. And if all didn’t go well, she’d have more to worry about.

“Good,” she said. “Now I’ll have to go. Could you keep an eye on it until someone comes along for it? It’ll be a woman in her fifties, who’ll tell you she’s in the police.”

“By all means,” said the suddenly friendly and cooperative restorer. “No problem.”

And Flavia left. Paolo rang her up a few minutes later; Mrs Verney, he said, had left as well. Here we go, she thought.

Fathers Jean and Xavier sat facing each other in the hospital room, neither really knowing what to say. Father Xavier seemed tranquil and content, Father Jean was more perturbed. It was a lot to absorb, to be told that your superior general had acted in a way which was so—well, immoral. To go against the perfectly clear and unambiguous vote of the council, however narrow the majority, was shocking. Unheard of, in fact. It was even more disturbing that Xavier had chosen to tell him, of all people. The person who was most likely to act on the news. It was exactly what he’d wanted, of course; a handle to stop the man’s reforming tendencies.

And he couldn’t do it. There was no secret of the confessional involved, of course; but in the past few days he’d thought hard, reconsidered his own behaviour and judged it savagely. Had he known this a few days ago, it would have been very different. Now he felt that he should apologize, not the other way around. Rather than give his unquestioned obedience, as was Xavier’s due, he had done his best to undermine his authority. He had caused this situation, and was responsible, every bit as much as the superior.

“I will of course resign as head of the order,” Father Xavier said after a while. “And I am sure you will be elected in my stead. Perhaps that would be the best.”

“This may come as a surprise, but I would beg you to reconsider,” Father Jean replied quietly. “This whole business was unfortunate, but I do not think you should resign. I was as much at fault as you, for not giving you the support that was your due. I am prepared to say so in council.”

Father Xavier looked up, half wondering what his old foe was up to now. “That is kind, Jean. But no use, I’m afraid. I will have to relinquish the post. My error was too great, and is bound to become public knowledge eventually. I do not wish to bring dishonour on the house. And, of course, my injuries will not mend so quickly.”

“The doctors say you will make a full recovery.”

“Eventually, no doubt. I hope so. But it will take time, and in that period I will be quite incapable of discharging my duties. It would be very much better if I stepped down. You must take over.”

Father Jean shook his head. “Not long ago I would have grabbed the opportunity with both hands,” he said with a faint smile. “But now I must conclude that I am not an appropriate person to lead us. I am too old and hidebound. If we choose someone else, and choose well, this episode can become a great turning point for us, rather than a period of sadness.”

“We?”’ Father Xavier said. “We? I feel that you do not mean the council when you use that word.”

“No. If we can decide on someone, and both recommend him, then the council will agree. You know that as well as I do.”

“If we can agree. Who would you recommend?”’

Father Jean shook his head, and drew the chair closer to the bed.

“How about Father Bertrand?”’ he asked. “A man of no known political views and a good administrator.”

“And someone dedicated to his hospital in Bulgaria. You’d never get him to agree to come back. A good man, of course, but not for us. I thought maybe Father Luc.”

Father Jean laughed. “Oh no. A saintly man, I admit. But he makes me seem radical. We’d be up all night flagellating ourselves with birch rods again if he took over. No, sir. Spare us from Father Luc.”

“Marc?”’

“Too old.”

“He’s younger than I am.”

“Still too old.”

“Francois?”’

“Terrible administrator. We’d be bankrupt in a year. More bankrupt.”

They paused for thought.

“Difficult, isn’t it?”’ said Father Xavier.

“What we need is someone new, not wedded to any faction, who could bring in fresh ideas. All these people we’ve been suggesting, they’re no good at all. We all know exactly what they’d do. We need someone from the outside, in effect. Someone as different as Father Paul.”

Father Jean made the suggestion carelessly, but once it was made, the name reverberated around his brain. It was a shocking idea, he knew.

“He’s in his thirties, has no experience of administration, no constituency in the order, he won’t want the job and he’s an African.”

“Exactly,” Father Jean said. Now the idea had occurred to him it suddenly gripped his imagination almost irresistibly. “He’s neither a reformer nor a traditionalist. The reformers will like him because he’s enthusiastic about missions. The traditionalists will like him because he’s very orthodox liturgically. When he’s not in Africa, anyway. Heaven knows what he gets up to there. And he’s a good man, Father. He really is.”

“I know. Father Charles spotted him, did he not? Brought him in? I was doubtful, I must say, but I’ve grown to like him.”

“The only hesitation I have is about what people will think,” Father Jean said. “An African? The youngest superior we’ve had for three centuries?”’

“Perhaps it’s time not to think of such things. Besides, I hate to be practical, Jean, my friend, but it’ll make us the most talked-about order in the church. Think of what that will do for recruitment.”

“Is he up to it, do you think? I must say, I believe he is. More than anyone I can think of. He has dedication and integrity. And common sense.”

Xavier folded his hands on his stomach with satisfaction. “He will do very nicely,” he said with finality. “Especially if we give him our support.”

“Will you?”’ Father Jean asked, conscious that a momentous decision was on the verge of being taken. “Give him your support?”’

Father Xavier paused for a fraction of a second, then nodded. “With my whole heart.”

“And so will I, then.”

Father Xavier chuckled for the first time in days. “In that case, we have a new leader. We need to draft some memoranda for the committee. For my sake, I would like it done as quickly as possible. This afternoon, even. A letter from myself stepping down, and a joint note from both of us recommending Father Paul. I will make a few phone calls when you leave, but you will have to run the meeting. The problem is Father Paul himself.”

Jean shook his head. “I think it would be best not to tell him in advance. He would only refuse to stand. If it’s sprung on him in the meeting and we have a quick vote … well, he won’t have any choice.”

Xavier lay back in his bed. “My goodness, Jean, my goodness. This’ll make the Jesuits sit up and take notice.”

Father Jean stood up to go, feeling as though an immense burden had been taken from his shoulders. With a small tear in his eye, he clasped his former leader’s hand, and shook it firmly. “I’m so glad,” he said. “Do you know, I believe we have been guided?”’

17

Menzies sat on his sofa contemplating his handiwork. He was an egotistical man in all areas of life except where his work was concerned; in that he was extremely self-critical, to himself if not to the outside world. But even he, as he sat and looked, then got up and picked up the icon, turning it over, brushing it with his finger, then looking at it critically once more, was satisfied. Was it perfect? he thought as he wrapped it carefully in a cloth. No. Could he tell there was something wrong? He wondered as he covered this in newspaper and tied it with string. Certainly, although it would have taken him some time to figure it out. Would anyone else? He paused reflectively. He didn’t think so; really he didn’t. It was a decent piece of work. In the circumstances, a brilliant one.