“I’m sorry.”
“Look, what is the matter with you? What did you come here for? Did you just want to snap my head off?”’
“I said I’m sorry. I know you’re busy, but I need to find out about that picture. I’ve been up since five, this man Burckhardt has been murdered …”
“What?”’
“He was shot. There is evidently much more to that picture than we thought. I need to know what. And for obvious reasons it’s becoming pressing.”
Argyll gaped at her in astonishment for a second, then shook himself, got up and walked out of the room. He came back a few moments later with a bearded man in his mid-forties.
“This is Mario di Angelo. He’s the head of the department. Tell him about Burckhardt.”
So she did. Di Angelo’s face registered firstly astonishment, then genuine shock and distress. “And I had dinner with him only a few days ago. Who would have thought?”’ he said, shaking his head sadly. “Poor man. Poor, poor man. A really nice, companionable fellow. Very learned as well. He’ll be badly missed, you know.”
Flavia nodded. “At this dinner, he didn’t mention being in Rome to buy an icon, did he?”’
A shaken head. “No. I assumed that he was here for some such reason, of course. We knew each other as scholars, and never talked about his business.”
“Nothing at all?”’
“No. He said he was going to finish off some research and had this wonderful idea. Such as he told me was quite interesting. All about the theological aspects of icons. Their changing role in the liturgy of the early church. The connection between the uses of icons and the uses of statues to local gods before Christianity.”
“Eh?”’
“You know, ancient Greek cities had their protecting deity, with Athens and Athena, and so on. Christian Greek cities and towns had their own saint or particular representation of Christ or the Virgin or whoever, which also had a protecting role. Now, was this a mere transference of old patterns of worship and belief on to new forms, or was it more complicated than that? Fascinating subject, really. He published a small note in the Journal of Byzantine Studies a year or so ago. He sent me a copy. I’d be happy to let you have it, if it would help.”
He was beginning to get into second gear here, and Flavia had this feeling that he might go on for a long time unless diverted. Not that she didn’t find it interesting, but …
“Thank you. Jonathan? Could you look through this stuff? Try and find out what Burckhardt was after?”’
“Apart from icons?”’
She nodded.
Argyll cocked his head and put his hand to his ear.
“Please?”’ she said.
“My pleasure.”
It was half past four, it had been a long day and it was far from over. Flavia had to see Mrs Verney at six and somehow she felt it wasn’t going to be an easy meeting. At the moment there wasn’t anything urgent to do, and she felt suddenly exhausted again. Once back in her office, she considered doing some paperwork, then the call of the sofa became loud and insistent. She lay down for a few seconds, curled up, and fell fast asleep.
One of those deep, drugged sleeps as well, where you are aware of being all but dead, know you should wake up but can’t do anything about it. And where you wake up sluggish and disoriented, especially if it is sudden and unexpected. Such as when you are brought round by someone shouting loudly and furiously in your ear.
“Go away,” she murmured, wanting nothing in the entire world except to be left alone to sleep some more.
“I will not,” she heard. “I want some answers and I want them damn fast. And as there’s no real policeman here, you’ll have to do.”
She forced open an eye, focused vaguely and after her brain had clanked ineffectually for a few seconds not only recognized Dan Menzies, but even recalled something about him.
Waking herself and pulling herself upright was one of the bravest things she had ever done.
“Now listen …” Menzies said, pointing aggressively at her. She couldn’t even feel annoyed yet. Instead, she waved her hand vaguely and staggered out into the corridor and to the coffee machine where she downed an espresso in a gulp. Then she went and stole one of the strong cigarettes Paolo habitually smoked, lit it, hacked away at the sudden shock to her throat, and felt human again.
“Now,” she said when she got back to her office. “What can I do for you, Mr Menzies?”’
Oddly, she had behaved perfectly. Menzies had worked himself into a fit of indignation before he arrived, but being treated so dismissively by someone who seemed not at all alarmed by his rage threw him off his stride. In truth, Flavia would, in other circumstances, have been a little more sympathetic. She took it for granted that Alberto had found him. It is not pleasant, if you are quietly restoring away, to be hauled off for questioning about a murder. A less volatile person than Menzies might well be annoyed.
He thrust a copy of the latest paper at her, and waggled it under her nose. She dutifully took it and read. It was another attack, containing details of the robbery in San Giovanni and vaguely suggesting that if you let American restorers into your house then naturally you’d expect to find bits of cutlery missing from the cabinet. Bartolo at it again. She’d phoned him to complain about what he was doing, but he had denied all knowledge of it. Lying through his teeth. She half considered dusting off his file to dig out one or two little matters to confront him with. A warning shot to indicate her displeasure. But she didn’t have time. He would have to wait until this was cleared up.
She did wish Bottando was around. He’d been spending his time on the phone and sloping around embassies seeing what, if any, real support there was for this project he’d been put in charge of. Normally he would have dealt with someone like Menzies. One of the aspects of his job she didn’t welcome taking on. Perhaps she should go with him after all. There are advantages to being subordinate.
“Hmm,” she said usefully. What else was she meant to say?
“And what do you imagine will be in there tomorrow, eh? Once you’ve rung them up? They’ll accuse me of murder next. I know it.”
“Well …”
They wouldn’t, of course. All they’d do was link the various bits together. Menzies has a reputation for assaulting people. Menzies sees Burckhardt two days before the murder. Burckhardt dies. No other suspects. Leave it to the reader to decide. Bartolo would make sure all the right people at the Beni Artistici saw it.
Menzies was not impressed. “I’ve spent the last three hours being asked stupid questions. Did I shoot Peter Burckhardt? Good God, it’s disgraceful. What are you going to do about it?”’
She blinked a couple of times and yawned. “What am I meant to do?”’
“Stop it, of course. I tell you, if you don’t …”
“Free press, Mr Menzies,” she said wearily. “I can’t stop anything. You should see what they say about us on occasion.”
“You can stop feeding them the information.”
“Oh, not again …”
“Look,” he said, jabbing his finger at the article. ““Police sources say …” That’s you, isn’t it? How else could they know all these details? They must have come from you.”
“I’m sorry, but …”
“They didn’t come from me, and Father Jean assures me no one in San Giovanni has talked to the press. That leaves you. And I’m telling you to stop.”
“I can assure you as well, if you like. I have not said a word to any journalist, about this or anything else. And I’d be very surprised if anyone else has either.”
“You think they got all this detail by inspired guesswork?”’ he shouted, getting redder in the face and beginning to work himself into his old frenzy again. “Don’t give me that. I’m not a complete fool. I’m going to complain—”’
“To your old friend the ambassador. I know. If you must, you must. I can’t stop you. But it won’t do any good. We never give details of a case to the press if we can help it. And we haven’t in this case either.”
“Who did, then?”’
“I’ve no idea, and frankly, at the moment, I couldn’t care less. I would suggest someone from the carabinieri;
