Augustus, and would do so until the Second Coming. Maybe beyond as well.
The depot was dimly lit by floodlights, most of which were out of action, and Flavia dimly saw dozens upon dozens of men, standing round like tank crews before going into battle, chatting away, smoking and taking the occasional sip of alcohol to fortify themselves for the day’s battle against the forces of chaos. She picked out a man who looked as though he might be in charge of something, and asked for information.
Not a talkative man. He squinted at her identification, then pointed her in the direction of a small and grubby bar, outside and on the other side of the road. It presumably lived off the refuse as well, feeding up the crews before they went off, and watering them down again when they came back. Certainly, there was nothing else around to provide it with any business.
Flavia went in, looked at the crowd of men in blue overalls crammed against the bar, and picked one at random.
“Aventino three,” she said.
Another point. Not a talkative lot, she thought, but who is at this time of day?
She ended up with a small, thin little man who looked as though he could barely carry a shopping bag, let alone the hefty weight of one of the huge, apartment-size bins that the city provides for collective cleanliness.
“Aventino three?”’ she asked again.
He didn’t say no, so she continued. “Did you collect in the via San Giovanni yesterday?”’
He looked at her suspiciously, as though she might be a city official about to relay a complaint from a resident about noise or leaving piles of rubbish in the street.
“Maybe we did,” he said.
She again pulled out her identification. “There was a robbery with violence there, probably before seven,” she said.
“Oh, yes?”’
“In the monastery. The superior had his head cracked.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And a painting was stolen. Did you see anything?”’
He thought for a moment, his lined brow puckering with concentration. Suddenly, enlightenment dawned.
“No,” he said.
Flavia sighed. “Are you sure? You didn’t see anyone coming out of San Giovanni? Going in? Did you hear anything?”’
He shook his head, and walked off to the bar. Flavia cursed silently to herself. She might as well have stayed in bed. Then she yawned, and realized that the early rise, the coffee on an empty stomach and the faint air of rotting vegetables that came off the clothes of everyone in the place was making her feel slightly sick. No, she thought. Make that very sick.
“He did it.”
She tried briefly to keep her stomach under control and saw that the little man had come back, this time with another figure, as big as he was short, and as powerful as he seemed weak.
“What?”’
“Giacomo did that end of the street. Yesterday.”
She concentrated hard, and managed a faint smile at Giacomo. He grinned, nervously and foolishly, back at her, showing his stained teeth. She caught a whiff of stale alcohol and cigarette on his breath, mingled with rot, and hoped desperately she could keep upright for long enough to question him.
“Did you see anything? At six? Or thereabouts?”’
“Nothing in particular,” he said. He had a slow, stupid voice.
“No unusual noises?”’
“No.” Every time she asked a question, Giacomo paused, and looked up at the ceiling, and thought hard. Hurry it up, she thought. I’m not asking you to perform calculus. He shook his head slowly, as though that gave added weight to his words.
“Did you see anyone in the monastery?”’
“No.”
“Nothing?”’
“No.”
She paused and thought. Waste of time.
“I saw a man come out of the church.”
She looked up at him urgently. “When?”’
“I don’t know. Six-thirty? Something like that. No. I tell a lie. It must have been before, because we stopped for a break a bit after. We always stop at six-thirty.”
“Wonderful,” Flavia said heartily and insincerely. “Now, what did you see?”’
“Like I say, a man came out of the church.”
“And?”’
“And nothing. I only noticed because the door is always locked. I’ve never seen it open. So I thought, hello, the door’s open.”
“Yes,” she said patiently. “Now, this man, was he holding anything? A package?”’
He shook his head, slowly, from side to side, then thought some more. “No.”
“You’re sure?”’
“Yes. He had a bag, though.”
“A bag?”’
“That’s right.” He held out his hands to show the size. “I noticed because he dropped it.”
“Did it make a noise? Did he seem worried that he dropped it?”’
He shook his head. “He just picked it up by the shoulder strap, and hurried away.”
“Hurried?”’
“Oh, yes. That’s why I noticed. Another reason, you see, apart from the door being open, that is. He ran down the steps very fast, dropped the bag, then walked off very fast.”
“I see. Now,” she said urgently, partly because she wanted to know and partly because she knew her stomach was running out of time, “What did he look like?”’
There followed an adequate description of a short, mild-looking man. Flavia took out the photographs that Giulia had taken that first afternoon when she’d been put on to the task of watching the monastery. Menzies leading someone out of the church, bidding him a fond farewell. So it seemed.
Giacomo peered at it carefully, and sucked his dentures in careful thought. “Oh, yes,” he said. “That’s the one.”
“You’re sure? The man on the right is the man you saw coming out of the church yesterday morning?”’
He nodded. She thanked him and turned to go, her stomach heaving from the aroma in the bar, the bitterness of her coffee and the lack of anything to eat. She told him he’d have to come to the station to give a statement at some time. He seemed disappointed.
“I’m sorry, but it really is necessary,” she said as patiently as she could manage.
“That doesn’t bother me. I just wondered whether you wanted to hear about the woman.”
“What woman?”’
“The one who went into the church after this man. I saw her.”
“Oh,” she said. “Yes. Maybe I do want to hear about her.”
All in all, Flavia thought with some satisfaction and an odd sense of disappointment, pretty conclusive. The refuse collector had given a description of Mary Verney which was passable and would undoubtedly identify her properly when called on to do so.
But they didn’t yet have an explanation. The more she thought, the more she realized this awkward little fact. Someone had left the church with a bag which was just about big enough for a small icon. Mary Verney had left empty-handed. Their witness was sure of that. She had only been in the church for a minute or two; not long enough to hit Father Xavier, steal the icon and hide it somewhere. They’d have to search the church again, just to be sure. This Burckhardt was almost certainly the one who took the picture, and also the man who attacked Father Xavier.
