“The people behind this did,” he proceeded illogically. “Clearly they came into the church at night to damage the painting I’m restoring. Father Xavier surprised them and they attacked him. It’s obvious.”
“And the icon?”’
Menzies waved his hand dismissively. “Second-rate rubbish. Taken to put you off the scent. So you’d think it was a burglary and not pursue the real culprits. I tell you, this is to stop me getting the Farnesina job. And I intend to make sure that doesn’t happen. I will hold you personally responsible …”
“Are you suggesting …?”’
“I am suggesting that the very fact that I am sitting here accounting for my movements will be all over the newspapers tomorrow. I’ve no doubt you will ring up your newspaper friends the moment you have the opportunity. No doubt they pay you well for this sort of malicious gossip.”
“I think I resent that.”
“I don’t care one way or the other. I want a full statement from you that you have no suspicions of me whatsoever, and that this was part of a campaign by my enemies against me.”
“Do you?”’
“And in the meantime,” he went on, levering his bulk out of the chair, “I will go to the embassy. I’m a personal friend of the ambassador, and he’ll want to hear about this. Do you have any idea how much money generous people in my country pour into conservation in Italy? Have you any idea?”’
Without waiting for an answer, he stumped out, looking very much in combative mood.
Flavia sighed a little.
“Going to be one of those cases,” she said. “Feel it in my bones.”
Father Paul was next in line, and had an even more commanding appearance as he moved into the room and sat down in front of them. He was sober and serious and upset but not at all frightened or cautious, unlike almost everyone else that Flavia ever interviewed.
Once the preliminaries were over, they had established that he was thirty-seven, from the Cameroon, a priest and had been brought to Rome to study at the Gregorian University.
“It’s part of a programme to unify the church at the grass roots,” he explained. “I come here, priests from Italy go to Africa. So we can study conditions and appreciate the meaning of cultural differences at first hand.”
“Has it worked? In your case?”’
He looked uncertain. “I would have preferred to have been sent to an inner-city parish where I could have done some real work, rather than sitting in a library,” he said. “But of course I am happy to obey the directions I am given.”
“And you want to go back?”’
“Of course. I hope to return fairly soon. Or had hoped to.”
“Why the change?”’
“It depends on getting the permission of the superior general. He had refused my request, unfortunately …”
“And now?”’
Father Paul smiled. “And now, when he recovers, he will refuse it again.”
“And if he doesn’t recover?”’
“Then I will withdraw my request, lest it be thought I have taken advantage of this tragedy. But I am convinced he will get better.”
“Faith?”’
“Nothing so elevated. I trained for a while in medicine before I found my vocation. He is badly hurt, but not fatally, I think.”
Pretty impenetrable there, Flavia thought. Not even so much as a hint of indignation at her implication. “How long does it take to elect a new superior? Or do you appoint a deputy?”’
Father Paul shrugged. “I’m not certain. This is uncharted territory. I think that Father Jean, as the oldest member, takes over for the time being; he used to be the official deputy when Father Charles ruled us.”
“Oh. Now, last night, you went for your walk …”
“About ten o’clock. I walked down the street, around one or two blocks, and came back at half past. I let myself in with the key, then locked and bolted the main door. Then checked the other side doors, which were all locked as they should be, then the library block, making sure the building was empty, the windows closed and the door locked when I left. The accommodation wing is always open, because of the risk of fire.”
“And you went into the church?”’
“Yes. I switched on all the lights, checked quickly and locked the door when I left.”
“And how many keys are there?”’
“Lots. Everyone living here has one, of course. And Mr Menzies, Signora Graziani, the man who does the gardening, the nuns who come in and cook for us, and so on.”
“And the church?”’
“The entrance key fits the door from the courtyard.”
“So Father Xavier could have gone into the church without having to ask anyone for a key.”
“Of course.”
“There’s no other way into it?”’
“There’s a door on to the street. But that has been closed for the last three years. It was used by ordinary people who wanted to come in to pray. There were not many any more, I’m afraid, and it was a practice that was disapproved of.”
“Why?”’
“The local parish church didn’t like it, and the icon was rather against the spirit of the times. The local priest of the parish is a very modern man. When the burglars struck a few years back, it was felt that this was a good time for change. We mended our fences with the parish and obeyed police strictures about security. And Father Xavier felt that as so few people used the church any more, it would not be noticed.”
“I see,” said Flavia. “And was it?”’
“There was a surprising amount of disquiet. It’s still very much a neighbourhood around here, with people who’ve been in the quarter for generations, and they rather regarded that Madonna as their patroness and protector. They never paid any attention to it while the church was open, of course, but they were upset when it was closed. Young girls used to come before they got married, and even the most hardened of boys found themselves in front of her before examinations.”
“I see. Now, you get up when?”’
“At half past five. Normally there is a service, then an hour of meditation before breakfast. Usually, that’s when the church is opened. But because of Mr Menzies making such a mess in there, we’ve been using the library recently.”
“So the church wasn’t opened until nine.”
“That’s right. Either Signora Graziani, or Mr Menzies, opens it up.”
“Tell us about the signora.”
Father Paul shrugged. “I know little about her. You’d have to ask Father Jean, I think. She works on a food stall on market days. When she does she comes early to clean. Every day, rain or shine; it’s some sort of vow, I believe. She is pious in a way which is rare nowadays. Probably always rare, in fact.”
Like Father Paul, Father Jean provided a brief biographical sketch, and told them that he was in effect the librarian of the community, and had stopped acting as deputy superior when Father Charles had stepped down three years previously.
“I would have retired, as that is theoretically now possible,” he said with a faint smile. “But alas, permission was denied me.”
“How old are you?”’
“Seventy-four.”
“Too young, eh?”’
“No, it’s because there are so few of us left. The average age of the order is about sixty now. There are no vocations any more. When I was young, there was competition to get in; the order offered useful work and an unparalleled education. Now the state provides the education, and no one believes in the work. So they need me.”
