“Father Paul …”
“Is, as you may have noticed, from Africa. And a very fine young man. The Third World is the only place we get vocations now. Unless we do something, I wouldn’t be at all surprised … still, this is not what you want to ask me about.”
“I suppose not. Tell me about Father Xavier. Is he popular? Well-liked?”’
Father Jean hesitated. “I’m not so sure what you’re asking.”
“Does he have enemies?”’
“You mean …?”’ The old man looked pale with horror as it dawned on him what Flavia was asking. “Surely, he was trying to prevent a burglary. This was nothing to do with him personally.”
“We do have to cover all options. Of course, it was almost certainly a burglary. But please answer the question anyway.”
“This is terribly distressing, in the circumstances.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Father Jean nodded and sighed heavily. “I suppose I must. As far as I know he has no family; none close, anyway. And virtually no friends, inside or outside the order.”
“Enemies?”’
“He is not a popular leader, and has been controversial ever since he took over, although it would have been difficult for anyone to fill the shoes of Father Charles.”
“In what way, controversial?”’
“We are at a difficult stage,” he began eventually, after a long search for the best way to phrase it. “And Father Xavier was the man forced to confront that. I am convinced he was on entirely the wrong track, but I suppose I must give him credit for trying. Many others would merely have swept all our problems under the carpet, and left them until they became too difficult to solve.”
“What precisely?”’
“We have to decide what we are for, if you see what I mean. It is no longer enough to pray, and other people, it seems, can do good works better than us. So what are we doing? We have some money and we have good people. Are we doing God’s work with either?”’
“Some of you wanted to give it away?”’
“Oh, no. Hardly that.” Father Jean permitted himself a faint, ironic smile. “It was more a question of how best to use what we had. And for some of us, how to get more. For the best possible reasons, of course.”
“Of course.”
“The church as a whole is in a certain amount of turmoil; you may have noticed. And being the church, it goes on for a long time. We think in centuries, so a convulsion lasting fifty years is a mere nothing. But that essentially is the problem. Do we guard the old ways or alter completely our approach? Do we try to change the world, or allow the world to change us? That is the basic problem facing all traditional religions, it seems.”
Flavia nodded. “I still don’t see …”
“We have no new vocations,” Father Jean continued. “Except from the Third World, as I said. Thirty priests under the age of thirty-five, and all but five come from Africa or South America. Yet all our officers are Italian or French—mainly French—most are over sixty, our headquarters are in Rome and most of our expenditure is in Europe. A significant number want to recognize the changes; an equally significant number want to keep things as they are. That, if you like, is the problem in a nutshell. The debate has caused much bitterness in our ranks.”
“What were Father Xavier’s proposals?”’
“They don’t have much relevance …”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Father Xavier, and those who supported him, wanted to rebuild us into an aid and teaching order. Raise money, and pour it all into development and missionary projects in Africa. And to raise money, he wanted to sell off assets. I was totally opposed to the scheme but was not certain that my views would prevail.”
“I see. And which assets are we talking about here? Wouldn’t be the Caravaggio, would it?”’
“Unfortunately, it would. Although that was only a start. We had a meeting to discuss the principle a few days ago. Fortunately the proposal was defeated.”
“Meaning what?”’
“Meaning that we decided as a body to refuse permission for anything to be sold at all.”
“Are you short of money?”’
“I don’t know. We are not a rich order, but two years ago, when I was in a position to know such things, we were not desperately poor.”
“Was this proposal caused by any offers? Had someone said they wanted to buy the Caravaggio?”’
“Not that I am aware of, no.”
There was a pause, as Father Jean realized that perhaps he had allowed the outside world too much of an insight into private business.
“So who runs things now?”’
“Until such time as the situation becomes clear—whether Xavier will be returning to his post or not—then we are in limbo. And, as far as I understand it, the most senior available member takes charge.”
“You?”’
He nodded. “It is a burden I do not wish to fall on my aged shoulders. But I have given my life to this order and now, in the time of its crisis, is not the moment to shirk my responsibilities.”
Flavia nodded. He wouldn’t have much trouble becoming a politician, she thought. He already speaks like one. And she thought she saw the bright glint of opportunity in his eye. “OK. Let’s leave that. What were your movements last night and this morning?”’
Father Jean said he had had an unexceptional evening. He had worked in the library until six, attended the evening service, had dinner, read for an hour, gone to chapel again then gone to bed at ten.
“In the morning I got up, attended chapel, spent an hour in prayer, ate and began work at seven. I stayed in the library until Father Paul came to say that there had been a terrible tragedy.”
“You sleep well?”’
He shrugged. “Well enough, I think. I need little sleep; we old men don’t, you know. I normally wake at about three and read.”
“And you did that last night?”’
“Yes.”
“What were you reading?”’
Father Jean looked a little sheepish. “Adventure stories,” he said. Flavia kept a straight face. “They are very entertaining, in the small hours. My nephew sends me them. Then I pass them on to all the other people here. We read them avidly.”
“Is that … ah …?”’ Flavia knew she shouldn’t ask, but the vision of this community of old priests, up late at night reading varieties of bodice-rippers was too irresistible to let go.
“Allowed?”’ Father Jean asked with a smile. “You think we should spend all our time reading St John of the Cross or a light Vatican encyclical? Oh, yes. It used not to be permitted, of course, but we are now allowed to keep in touch with the outside world. Even encouraged, as long as it doesn’t go too far.”
“Yes. Right.” Flavia paused a while to remember what line she had been pursuing before this unlikely diversion had cropped up. “Now,” she continued, when it came back to her. “Where is your, ah, cell? Is that what you call them?”’
“It faces the main courtyard. Opposite the church. Where I would have been in a good position to hear any shouting or screaming had any occurred.”
“And it didn’t?”’
He shook his head. “Nothing. And as I’m such a light sleeper, I feel certain I would have heard anything at all during the night. A bird singing is often enough to wake me up.”
Flavia paused. Why was it that she did not believe him? He was sitting quietly, hands folded in his lap as though he was attending a long church service. There was nothing suspicious or hesitant about him at all, and yet she knew, as sure as anything, that at the very least he was concealing something.
“Tell me, Father, how did Mr Menzies get the commission to clean the paintings?”’
“He didn’t,” the old man replied. “He offered. We weren’t paying him. That was the only reason we
