“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.