“Ah.”
“And now only I am let in. I tend to her …”
“Morning!” A voice boomed and echoed across the church like an old cannon being fired, and simultaneously a bright shaft of sunlight cut across the loom of the church like a knife. Dan Menzies had walked through the door. “Ciao, signora,” he said cheerfully to the cleaner. “How are you this morning?”
“Good morning, sir,” she said politely, then picked up her bucket and walked off to restart her work. Menzies made a face at Argyll and shrugged. No dealing with some people, he seemed to say.
“Who are you?”
Argyll began his explanation as Menzies pulled out a key ring from his pocket and gestured at the temporary wall put across the transept. “I’ve seen you around. At the university, right? Come in, come in. Come and see the mess I’m making, if you must. Trying to prove it’s by Caravaggio, are you?”
“Or not.”
“Not, in my opinion.”
“Why do you say that?”
He shook his head. “The style’s OK. But it’s not good enough. Although there was so much nineteenth-century overpainting there’s not a lot of the original left. Why don’t you write about that? The nineteenth-century destruction of Italy’s art? They did much more damage than modern restorers have ever done, you know. Despite our reputation, we’re very careful in comparison to what went on before.”
“I’ll think about it. I rather want a more modest topic at the moment.”
“Publish or perish, eh?”
“Not exactly.”
“Here it is, anyway. It still looks a bit shocking, but I’m nearly finished, despite the efforts of Father Xavier to stop me.”
He fumbled at the door then pushed it open.
“Who’s he?”
“Head man. Got a bee in his bonnet about someone stealing it. Apparently the police were here and put the fear of God into him. Stupid man even had the idea that I should roll it up and lock it in a cupboard every night for security’s sake. I tried to tell him that’s impossible, but you know what a bunch of idiots these people are. Frankly, I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to steal it even if it was in perfect condition. Not my taste at all. Certainly not at the moment. Have a look. I’ll put the lights on.”
Argyll stood in the cool and dusky light, facing the altar, until the whole transept was suddenly drenched in a harsh and brilliant glare. He gasped in astonishment.
“Oh, my God,” he said.
“Don’t be ridiculous. That’s quite normal,” Menzies called from over by the light switches. “Don’t you know anything about restoration?”
“Not really.”
“Well, you should. it’s absurd for someone who calls himself an expert in art not to know the basics about the most important part of the entire business.”
“All I know,” Argyll said defensively, deciding not to mention that he’d always thought painting the things in the first place was more important, “is that it looks as though it’s been in a bar-room brawl. All that sticking plaster.”
“Dear God, how I hate the ignorant amateur,” Menzies said fervently. “You’ll be going on about respecting the wishes of the artist next.”
“Isn’t that what you’re meant to do?”
“Of course. If you know what his intentions were. But you don’t, most of the time. What you normally have is a couple of square metres of peeling paint. Often heavily gone over by someone else. You don’t really think that Caravaggio wanted that man watching in the corner to have side whiskers and the air of a nineteenth-century property developer, do you?”
“I don’t know.”
“I do. He didn’t. But a hundred years ago someone removed whatever he painted and stuck an entirely new face on. It must have been shortly after it came here.”
“Wasn’t it painted for the place?”
“Oh, no. Of course not. Look at it. Doesn’t fit at all.”
“Where did it come from?” No harm getting it started.
“Who cares? Not my business.”
“Does anyone know?”
“Probably. If you want to find out, go and look in the archives. Tons of stuff in there, I gather. Anyway, this face. I’ve taken it off, and there’s nothing underneath. I have to put something back, and go by intuition. Guesswork, if you like. Someone’s got to do it. It’s all very well going on about minimal restoration, but that’s the sort of nonsense normally spouted by people who don’t know what they are talking about.”
“My line is more historical.”
Menzies shrugged. “In that case, the archives are the place for you. You should ask Father Jean. He controls them at the moment, although I don’t think he knows much. Some old buffer before him was the expert.”
So Argyll left to find Father Jean and beg access to the archives. The itch was upon him, the yearning for the feel of old paper and the smell of dust in his hair.
Although Flavia was having a quiet and companionable mid-afternoon drink after leaving Giulia to the tender mercies of Mary Verney, she could, legitimately, claim to be working. Oiling up the contacts is a necessary part of the business and, on the whole, not too unpleasant: however loathsome and dishonest many art dealers are, they tend to regard the generous provision of food, wine and conversation as part of a public image necessary for the successful acquisition of clients. Sociability had been one of Argyll’s least favourite activities and, in no small measure, contributed to the slow progress of his career before he did an abrupt turnabout and took refuge in teaching. All to the good, in Flavia’s view; his mood had improved with his salary and, much to his surprise, he had sold more of his stock of paintings since he gave up being a dealer than he ever had when he was working on it full time.
Flavia, on the other hand, quite liked this aspect of the job—another mark against following Bottando into internationalism—as long as she was careful about who she associated with. It is, after all, always awkward to end up prosecuting someone who a few months previously had bought you a good lunch, but there was little to be done about it; if you want the best out of your contacts, you have to associate with the doubtful ones. Flavia was expected to be discreet, overlook any minor peccadilloes like taxes she might come across and give the occasional careful warning should that be necessary. Like, I’d be careful about having dealings with so-and-so for a few months. Or, if you were planning to buy that Domenichino in the auction next week, it might be advisable to think again. Things like that.
And in return, she expected a steady flow of information on the grounds that if it wasn’t forthcoming, she might accidentally let slip about the taxes to the financial police, or time a raid for the very moment when a particularly important client was in the gallery and about to buy a major work.
Not that such tasteless matters were ever mentioned as the wine was poured or the coffee drunk; it was understood, and there was no need to be crude about it.
And Giuseppe Bartolo, whose gallery she reached at about four after fruitless visits to half a dozen others before him, was a wise, not to say wily, old-timer who knew the rules better than she did, being twice her age and many times as cunning. Indeed, he had virtually taught them to her, having taken her under his wing when she was little older, and even less experienced, than Giulia. In a similar manner to Bottando but from a slightly different perspective, he had given her useful advice about the seamier sides of the art business, and continued to do so. He regarded it as an insurance policy; he knew as well as Flavia did that the file on him in the bureau was bursting out of its second folder. Smuggling, handling stolen goods, failure to report income, operating rings at auctions, excess zeal in authentication, fakery, the works. A lovely man he was, and a wholly delightful companion, full of entertaining anecdotes and worldly wisdom.