they’re talkative, but …”
“There you are then.”
“But,” she continued. “If I remember rightly the first story appeared before the carabinieri had anything to do with the place. So it can’t be them.”
“So what are you going to do?”’
“Nothing,” she said. “You’re on your own, I’m afraid.”
“Thank you very much.”
“What do you expect? The only thing I can do is find out what’s been going on. And to help with that I might as well ask you a few questions, as you’re here. Sit down.”
“I’ll do no such thing …”
“Sit down!” she shouted suddenly, her patience snapping. Menzies, completely taken by surprise, did as he was told.
“Thank you,” she said. Then summoned Giulia from next door.
“What’s she here for?”’
“To take notes. Now, let’s go through this stage by stage, shall we? Why didn’t you mention Burckhardt when we interviewed you the day before.”
He squirmed a little. “Why should I have done?”’
“Icon dealer in a church the day before an icon is stolen? That didn’t strike you as being important?”’
“At the time, no.”
“Why not?”’
“Because I didn’t know who he was.”
Flavia looked scornful. “You beat him up in Toronto.”
“I did not. I simply threw a little water at him.”
“It was still in the glass.”
“I didn’t mean to. I got carried away.”
“Exactly my point. And, no doubt, the point the papers will be making.”
“I saw him for five minutes. And I didn’t remember who he was until later.”
“Come now.”
“It’s true. I don’t know anything about icons or icon dealers. I didn’t know who Burckhardt was. In Toronto, all I knew was that some little squirt in the audience dared to criticize me from a standpoint of total ignorance, and renewed his attack afterwards. Maybe I had had a little too much to drink. But it was such a minor incident, I forgot all about it. I vaguely recognized him in the church. But I only remembered when the carabinieri told me he was dead and showed me a photograph.”
Flavia grunted. There was such a combination of injury, anger and embarrassment coming from the man she doubted anyone could fake such a cocktail. She didn’t necessarily believe him, but there was nothing to be done about it at the moment.
“When Burckhardt appeared in the church, did he walk straight up to you?”’
“I don’t know. I was concentrating. I only noticed him when I heard him behind me.”
“He didn’t look at anything in particular?”’
He shook his head. “I wasn’t paying attention. I think he was down at the far end of the church, by the main door, but I’m not sure.”
“Did he seem in a good mood?”’
Menzies thought. “It’s difficult to say with someone you don’t know. But, yes, he seemed OK. Seemed quite happy.”
“Had you examined the picture? The icon. You were going to clean it.”
“I’d looked it over.”
“And?”’
“And decided it would take longer to clean than it probably merited. As far as I could see it was very old, hadn’t been looked after well and was in terrible condition. It had had woodworm at some stage and had been treated, by immersion. A long time ago. The treatment had put a thick brown coating over the painting so you could barely see it. It would have been phenomenally difficult to get that off without destroying the painting entirely. Some of it had gone anyway. For all my reputation, I don’t believe in doing things unnecessarily or unless I’m sure I can do it safely. In this case I was simply going to clean the surface, treat it again for rot and reinforce it. It would have been something of a risk just taking it out of the frame.”
“Which someone has now done.”
“Hmm? Oh no. I mean the inner frame. There were two. The outer one of gold and silver laid on wood, and an inner supporting frame. The second one was taken as well.”
“Does that surprise you?”’
“Not at all. The outer frame came off easily. The inner one was fixed much more securely. It would have been difficult to remove it, and much safer not to.”
“I see. Now, how did Burckhardt get in? Was the main door open?”’
“No. It never is. He must have come in through the usual entrance.”
“Which means ringing the bell and someone letting him in?”’
“I suppose. Unless he arrived with someone who has a key. Everyone in the place has a key.”
“No one we’ve talked to let him in or heard him ring.”
Menzies shrugged. “Must have pole-vaulted over the wall, then.”
“Thank you, Mr Menzies.” She stood up and showed him to the door before he could begin to move the conversation back to newspapers and journalists. “I may very well need to talk to you again in the next few days. I’ll come and see you at the monastery if need be.”
Surprisingly, he walked out quite meekly, and left her alone. She sighed heavily, shook her head, then glanced at her watch. Her heart sank. Menzies had distracted her from her real business. It was ten to six. Time for Mrs Verney. She was not looking forward to it.
Flavia had persuaded Paolo to pick Mary Verney up from her hotel and bring her in, then had her kept in a small room in the, basement for a couple of hours to meditate on her sins, whatever they were. She did not think Mrs Verney had stolen the picture. She didn’t know what Mrs Verney had done. She merely knew that she had done something, and hoped that a spot of peace and quiet in a dank and airless room would persuade her to explain. Somehow, though, she doubted it.
For all that she was on the verge of panic, Mrs Verney seemed perfectly unconcerned on the surface. She did not relish the idea of jail; she resented the fact that pressure from others had landed her in this position and, above all, she was terrified that unless she delivered the goods, her granddaughter would suffer. And at the moment, she was completely at a loss. The picture had gone, and all she had to show for it was a hefty stash of money found in a left-luggage box. While Flavia wanted the interview to bring some enlightenment, Mrs Verney awaited the conversation with very similar hopes.
Like a good prisoner, though, she sat quietly as Flavia came in and waited for her to begin the questioning.
“Now then, I have to tell you that you are in serious trouble.”
“Really? Why is that?”’
“Let me summarize. Yesterday morning, a painting was stolen from the monastery of San Giovanni on the Aventino. Do you know the building?”’
A smile of the sort that indicated that she thought setting such an easy trap was, well, a bit insulting, really.
“Of course I do. Which painting was stolen? The Caravaggio, or the little icon in the corner? I saw them for the first time some twenty years ago. I lived in Rome briefly and was a very assiduous tourist.”
“The icon.”
“Goodness,” she said, then offered no more.
“Do you know anything about it?”’
“Should I?”’
“I’m asking you.”
“So you are.”
