“I clean the church,” she said. “They allow me to. We always have.”
“We?”’
“My family.”
“Oh.”
There was a brief pause, as Argyll examined this woman, and she, with great but benign curiosity, studied him. He saw a short, stocky figure, very Roman in appearance, with that broad, both-feet-on-the-ground air which is characteristic of the city’s inhabitants. A kind face, with hands rough from years of being dipped into buckets of cold water, and scrubbing floors on hands and knees. An old floral house dress, and a cheap coat to keep off the dirt. She also wore a bizarre pair of pink velvet slippers with pom-poms on the end, which no doubt accounted for her being able to walk up behind him so silently.
“It’s My Lady,” she said, nodding a greeting at the icon and making a half curtsey as she spoke. Odd, Argyll thought. Not Our Lady. Was that common among Romans? He’d never noticed before. “She has great powers.”
“Oh, yes?”’
“She protects those who are kind to her, and chastises the wicked. In the war, the people who lived round here gathered in the church when the troops were approaching and prayed for her help. Not a single bomb fell on this part of town.”
“That was fortunate.”
“It had nothing to do with fortune.”
“Of course not,” Argyll said hurriedly. “She seems a little, um, neglected, now.”
The woman clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth in disapproval and sadness. “We live in a wicked age. Even priests turn from her, so how can anyone else know better?”’
Argyll was beginning to feel uncomfortable. These sorts of conversations always had this effect on him, a slight feeling of claustrophobia and a desperate desire to be somewhere else. He didn’t want to encourage her to talk on, but didn’t want to be rude either, so he hopped up and down and said, “Ah, indeed,” in a noncommittal way.
“They won’t let people in any more; it’s so sad and so foolish. The church used to be open for supplicants, who needed to come and ask her a favour. Or who wanted to thank her.”
“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
