Father Jean nodded, and seemed about to say something, but decided not to, just at the moment.
“Do you have any idea …?”’
“What happened? None. And I know enough not even to think of it yet. We’ll see later on. You certainly know more than I do at the moment. Now, if you could show me to a telephone …”
She walked off with the priest so she could telephone Bottando, and Argyll watched her go, rather abandoned, sitting on a pew. It always gave him something of a shock, watching her at work. She was so very calm and good at it. While he had felt almost weak at the knees at the sight of the blood, Flavia had shown no reaction at all, once the paleness caused by the initial shock had passed. In fact, he had even noticed her stifle a yawn at one point.
For his part, he needed a drink, early though it was. So he walked out of the building and down the road to the nearest bar. A gaggle of locals, men having their coffee and roll before going off to work, eyed him curiously.
“Ambulance at the monastery, I see,” one said conversationally.
“And police,” agreed another. “I know those number plates.”
“You wouldn’t know what it was about?”’ added a third, looking at Argyll.
“Well …” he began.
“Body being taken out? What’s been going on?”’
“I think there has been a theft. The superior was attacked. He’s still alive, though.”
A lot of tutting and shaking of heads at this. The way of the world, what are we coming to? Still, what do you expect?
“What they take, then?”’ said one of the more jovial ones.
“Oh, not much, as far as they know,” he said reassuringly. “Only a picture. They didn’t even take the valuable one. They lifted a little Madonna instead.”
One of the men put his coffee cup down on the counter and looked Argyll firmly in the eye.
“A Madonna? Not My Lady?”’
“A little icon.” Argyll gestured to indicate the size. “Very dirty.”
“In the side chapel?”’
“That’s the one, I think.”
There was a lot of muttering at this, and Argyll noticed one of the men surreptitiously pull out a handkerchief from his jacket and dab his eye.
“Oh, no,” one of the others cried. “Surely not?”’
As is usual in such cases, Argyll glanced at the barman to get an indication of what exactly was going on. He, he thought, would be reliable. A youngish man, with fashionably cut hair and the sort of casual air of someone who had never been troubled by a sombre thought in his life. He also had turned grim-faced, and was drying a beer glass with an unusual intensity.
“The bastards,” this man said. “The bastards.”
A chord had been struck. The cheerful atmosphere of the bar dissolved under the impact of Argyll’s words like an ice cream in the July sun. In its place was genuine anger and, he thought, real distress. Almost worry.
“I’m sorry to bring bad news,” he said, trying to back pedal from his insouciant approach of a few seconds ago and adopt a more fitting demeanour. “I didn’t realize you would mind so much. No one ever goes in there, do they?”’
“It was locked. By that man.”
“But still …”
“She was there. That’s what counted.”
“I see.” Then he saw, with profound relief, the reassuring figure of Father Paul come through the door. Could he come back? Signorina di Stefano wanted to talk to him.
“Was Father Xavier in the chapel all night, do you think?”’ he asked the priest as they walked back to the monastery.
Father Paul shrugged. “I really don’t know, Mr Argyll. I really don’t know. It was my job to do the rounds and make sure everything was locked up, and I didn’t notice anything wrong then.”
“When was that?”’
“Just after eleven. We have evening prayers, we are allowed an hour to ourselves, and the lights go off at ten. Then the person on duty goes round and checks everything is closed. It was something introduced after the last burglary.”
“And you saw nothing?”’
A shake of the head.
There were five cars parked outside the monastery, which Argyll assumed contained all those specialists who emerge from under stones on these occasions. Flavia was standing in the courtyard, arguing fiercely with Alberto.
“Look, I don’t want to argue with you,” she was saying, clearly not telling the truth at all. “It’s not my concern whether this is investigated by you or by me.” Another blatant fib. “I was asked to come here about a possible theft, and I proposed to find out what was going on. I don’t want to take on anything else if I can help it …”
Extraordinary how she could string together so many untruths and look so convincing. The other man was grumbling, but seemed prepared to retreat and let other people fight for his department’s honour. They agreed that the entire matter should be passed on to their respective superiors and, that little bit of necessary posturing over, seemed quite content to resume normal relations.
“Jonathan!” She called him over. “You’ll have to give a statement, you know. This is the man who’ll be taking it.”
Argyll nodded. “Fine. Although it’ll be short and less than helpful. Do you want it now?”’
Alberto shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. We’ll let the experts do their stuff and clear out. Then everything might get a little bit calmer.”
“Waiting around all day?”’
“I’m afraid so.”
“Would it matter if I waited somewhere else? I was only going to be here for an hour or so, and then I’m meant to be delivering a lecture.”
Alberto puffed and blew but, what are friends for? Flavia vouched for his good behaviour and he was let out with a promise that he come back immediately afterwards. He wasn’t entirely certain whether he felt glad or not.
By the time he returned, a certain amount of progress had been made. The first information from the hospital said that Father Xavier was still alive, if only barely, and in intensive care. He had obviously been hit on the head, and was lucky to be alive at all. But he was unconscious, and liable to stay that way for some time. What was more, no blunt instrument of any shape or variety was in the area of the attack. Not with blood on, anyway.
So the police, both branches of it acting in harmony for once, began the task of asking questions and taking statements.
Menzies was useless, even when he had been weaned off his own problems and persuaded to concentrate on what, to the police at least, were more important matters.
He had left about six, gone home, changed and gone to a reception at which he had hoped to collar several influential members of the Beni Artistici. Said members had not been there, so he’d left early, eaten in a restaurant and gone home. He produced the bill from the restaurant, agreed readily that his movements were unaccounted for from the hours of half past ten to eight in the morning, when he’d gone for a coffee in the bar round the corner from his apartment, but seemed very unconcerned about the fact.
“If you can find me a good reason for assaulting Father Xavier, I’d be very interested to hear it. This affair is obviously an attack on me.”
Flavia looked puzzled. How on earth could he conclude that?
“Be reasonable,” he snapped. “I am being attacked left and right, and by people who are completely unscrupulous. Did you see that scurrilous article this morning? It’s a disgrace. For which I hold you responsible. You obviously fed a story to the newspaper out of sheer xenophobic malice.”
“I assure you I did nothing of the sort. Are you suggesting I also attacked Xavier?”’ Flavia asked stiffly.
