tonsured and muttering. But no such picturesque details were forthcoming: what he got instead was a buzz and a click from the gate as the electric lock opened up. The modern world, he thought as he pushed and went inside. No romance.
It is one of the great delights of Rome that not even a long-term, assiduous resident is safe from surprise. Any street in the city, no matter where and no matter how seedy or shabby it looks at first glance, is capable of containing some little gem tucked away in an obscure corner, passed by nearly all the time and waiting to astonish. Sometimes it is a toy-box-sized Renaissance chapel, around which a twentieth-century developer has squeezed a vast, lumbering block of flats, or which has been accidentally turned into a traffic roundabout. Or the remains of a Roman palace nestling between a truck stop and a railway line. Or it is a Renaissance pile, converted into flats and hammered incessantly by fumes and the noise of traffic, but which still has its delicate, colonnaded courtyard, with moss on the cobbles and a sculpted fountain of nymphs and goddesses tinkling away to welcome home the weary commuters in the evening.
The headquarters of the Giovannisti (as such they were known, Argyll had learnt from a guidebook) was one such building. The street which contained it was not noisy, but it was unremarkable. A block or two of flats and empty, weed-covered waste ground awaiting the bulldozers and archaeologists on one side. The sort of street which contains nothing of interest to anyone.
Except for what was perhaps one of the prettiest collection of buildings that Argyll had ever seen. It was almost a perfect little miniature version of a monastery, with the chapel—much earlier in date, it seemed—on one side topped by a short tower that wanted to point to the heavens but was a bit too timid to presume; a range for the living quarters flanking it, but two storeys only, giving the effect of a row of country cottages, complete down to the green and orange of the old, rippling tiles on the roof, and then, slightly set aside, what was presumably the public building, with the library and the meeting rooms and the offices. Being on an uneven piece of ground helped, as the architect had so arranged his work that he fitted it into the terrain rather than the other way around; the result was an informality helped by the bits of classical statuary, evidently found when the garden was dug, stacked in one corner, and a bed of carefully tended summer flowers in another. Argyll breathed deeply and smiled in contentment.
“Good morning. Can I help you?”’
Argyll was startled. Far from the shuffling old monk with matchstick legs and leather slippers he’d expected, he was confronted with the looming figure of possibly the most handsome man he had ever set eyes on. Nearly seven feet tall, powerfully built and nothing but muscle and bone, the sort of finely chiselled face a good draughtsman would long to have in his studio for a month or so, and a deep black skin which positively radiated health. He was dressed all in white —linen shirt, linen trousers and even linen shoes which made him all the more striking, and wore a small gold cross around his neck. That was the only indication at all that he was an inmate. Argyll felt pale and scruffy in comparison, which was largely because he was.
“Ah. Yes. Good morning. My name is Argyll.”
The man nodded politely in acknowledgement, but seemed to think that more was necessary. He didn’t bother to ask anything.
“I’ve come to see Mr Menzies.”
It was only for the briefest fraction of a second, but Argyll thought he saw a tiny little twitch in the man’s face, and believed that it indicated less than wholehearted warmth for Mr Menzies. But maybe not; he spoke perfectly graciously in a rich and elegant voice.
“I’m afraid Mr Menzies has not yet arrived. If you would like some coffee while you wait …?”’
“That’s kind. But I’m awash with the stuff this morning. Could I go into the chapel and see what he’s up to?”’
“With pleasure, but I doubt you’ll see much. Mr Menzies has cordoned off most of the transept as his work space and barred the entry. But you’re welcome to see the rest of the church. It is, I’m told, very lovely.”
“You don’t think so?”’
“You may have noticed that I come from a very different tradition, sir. It means less to me.”
“Ah.”
“I think that the door will be open now. We have to lock it up these days, you see.”
“Oh? For any reason?”’ Such as the sudden arrival of a vastly valuable, but small treasure waiting to be stolen? he thought hopefully.
“There was a burglary a year or so ago, and the police recommended that if we didn’t want to lose everything, we might think of locking the doors. There is, in truth, little that is stealable, I gather. But they say that if it can be moved, it will be. So they told us to lock it.”
“They do that.”
“We still don’t like it, I must say. There is a group amongst us who believe there is something strange in an order which takes vows of poverty protecting its possessions from the poor and needy. Especially as they are not valuable.”
Argyll nodded. “A lot of church history is against you, there.”
Father Paul nodded. “I am learning this.”
“Where do you have your services at the moment? If Menzies has commandeered your chapel?”’
“Oh, we make do. In the refectory, and sometimes in the library. Which, it must be said, is very much more comfortable. The chapel itself tends to be a little damp, especially in the winter months. And as many of our brothers are not in the prime of youth …”
“I see. Agonies at evensong, eh?”’
“I beg your pardon?”’ He seemed puzzled by the remark.
“Nothing.”
“Please wait in the chapel if you wish. And do tell me what he’s doing in there, will you? He discourages us from viewing his work.”
Then Argyll was left alone in the little courtyard and, to pass the time, went into the church to examine those bits which had not been boarded off by Dan Menzies. It was, in truth, very charming, or would have been. At a rough guess, Argyll reckoned it was probably fifteenth century in origin, and there was just enough clear space to see the elegant simplicity of the old church, which was fairly small but still had the dignity and harmony of its century. But it had been modernized, got at in the seventeenth century. Again, the architect had restrained himself. There was lots of gold leaf, angels and cherubs on the ceiling, and curls and quiffs stuck on all over the place, but somehow the effect was in keeping with the original structure. It was something of a relief. Argyll was a great defender of the baroque, normally, but sometimes they did go over the top and give even the loveliest buildings a distinct air of the Roman nouveaux riches.
So he turned his attention to the paintings, principally the Caravaggio. Not that there was much to see, as only the frame was left hanging on the wall, but it was clear even from that that it didn’t fit. Much too big. Just the ticket for a huge place like San Andrea delle Valle, or San Agnese, but here it would seem so vast it would look as though it was wedged in, turning the airy church merely into supporting walls for the painter’s gloomy notions of religion. The wrong mood, and as out of place as a mourner at a wedding party. And clearly vast. Twelve foot by eight, more or less. Stealing it would be a bit of a task. Although, for his part, he reckoned the church would be greatly improved if someone did remove it. In fact, he decided as he walked round, his feet echoing quietly on the stone flagging, the only painting which should be there was that little Madonna. He stopped and peered at the tiny painting in a minuscule chapel halfway down the aisle. It was very dirty, and he could scarcely make it out, but it was, he thought, a virgin and child. Very old, and an icon. Surrounded by a gold frame that came all the way down to the head, then curved simply round the outline of the shoulders and down to the infant resting airily in her arms. In front of it was a range of candle holders for the devout. There were no candles lit; no prayers or supplications that day. Argyll, who hated anyone to feel neglected and lonely, fished out a coin and dropped it in the box, then took a candle and lit it with his lighter, pressing it into the holder right in the painting’s line of sight. There you are, love, he thought.
“Thank you, sir,” said a soft woman’s voice, so gentle and so unexpected that Argyll, prone as he was to momentary bursts of superstition, almost jumped into the air.
“I’m sorry; I surprised you,” it continued, and Argyll turned round to see a middle-aged woman with a broom in one hand and an old plastic bucket in the other.
“No, no. That’s all right,” he said. “I didn’t hear you. Who are you?”’
