“Yes. And I’m coming to believe that it should have been our job to ignore him. So you see, we have to discuss this, and work out what to do.”
“Of course. Perhaps if you could tell me where this Father Charles is? If there’s any chance of getting something out of him …”
“Oh, that’s easy enough. He’s here. We look after our own, you know.”
Father Jean looked at his old watch, and grunted. “I can take you to him quickly. if he’s alert, I’ll leave you. Then you’ll have to fend for yourself.”
Very quickly, he headed off down corridors, up stairs, mounting higher and higher in the building until the decorations gave way and was replaced by older, blistered and peeling paint. The windows got smaller and smaller, and the ever more narrow doors became looser on their hinges.
“Not lavish, I’m afraid,” Father Jean observed. “But he refused to move.”
“He wants to live here?”’
“He has done for sixty years and refused to budge even when he was the superior. We wanted to give him a lighter room on the ground floor. It would have made it easier for him to get around, and the doctors thought that more cheerful surroundings might help his mind. But he wouldn’t have it. He never did like change.”
He knocked on the door, waited for a moment then pushed it open.
“Charles?”’ he said softly into the gloom. “Are you awake?”’
“I am,” an old voice said. “I am awake.”
“I have a visitor for you. He wants to ask about the archives.”
There was a long pause and a creaking of a chair from the other side of the darkened room. Argyll noticed the strong, musty smell of underventilation and extreme old age in the air, and braced himself for a difficult and unrewarding encounter.
“Show him in, then.”
“Are you able to talk to him?”’
“What have I just been doing?”’
“You’re in luck,” Father Jean whispered. “He’ll probably lapse after a while, but you might get something out of him.”
“Don’t whisper, Jean,” came the voice, cross now. “Send me this visitor, and get him to open the shutters so I can see what I have to deal with. And leave me in peace.”
Father Jean gave an affectionate smile and padded softly out of the room, leaving Argyll, oddly nervous, alone. He stumbled across the room to reach the wall and opened both windows and shutters. The morning sunlight streamed in with such intensity it was almost like being hit.
The light revealed a sparse, austere room, with a bed, two chairs, a desk and a shelf of books. On the wall was a crucifix, and from the ceiling hung a light with a single, unshaded light bulb. In one of the chairs sat Father Charles, looking at him calmly andwiththe infinite patience of age. Argyll stood still while the inspection was on, not daring to sit down until invited.
He was surprised by what he saw. He had half expected an wizened little man, as pitiful as old age can be, doddering and pathetic. Instead, the sight presented to him could hardly have been more different. Father Charles was still big, and must have been enormous when young. Barrel-chested, powerful and tall, even in ill-health, he dominated the room and made the chair he was sitting on seem far too small. More important still was his expression, which flickered with interest as it studied Argyll’s face with care, taking all the time he wanted, conscious that nothing would happen until he was ready to allow the interview to proceed.
After a while, and having established through his silence who was in control, Father Charles nodded to himself.
“And you are …?”’
Argyll introduced himself, speaking loudly and clearly.
“Sit down, Signor Argyll. And there is no need to talk like that. I am neither deaf nor stupid.”
Argyll looked embarrassed.
“And don’t look embarrassed, either. I am, as Father Jean has no doubt told you, not what I was. But much of the time I am perfectly compos mentis. If I feel myself slipping I will tell you, and bring the conversation to an end. I am too proud, I’m afraid, to relish people seeing me in the state such deterioration brings. You would not enjoy it either.”
“By all means,” Argyll said.
“So, young man, tell me what you want.”
Argyll began to explain.
“Ah, yes, Our Lady from the East. Would you mind telling me why you are interested?”’
Argyll explained about the theft. As he talked, the old man shook his head with interest.
“No,” he said. “It cannot be.”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“Then you are wrong. She cannot—will not—leave this house. It is impossible, unless”—here he smiled to himself—“unless world politics has changed markedly since I read the newspaper. And that was only yesterday, you know.”
So much for his mentis. More composted than compos.
“She will reveal herself in her own good time. Have no fear.”
There was no point arguing about it. Argyll tried a more oblique approach. “Nonetheless, your colleagues are very concerned, and want me to help. For their sake, even if it is unnecessary …”
Charles’s face twitched with a little smile. “I am not mad, sir. I talk perfect sense.”
“Of course you do,” Argyll agreed heartily.
“And don’t patronize me. You are much too young for that.”
“Sorry.”
Father Charles leaned forward and studied Argyll’s face. “Yes. I remember you. I have little time, I fear, sir. You had better tell me your business so that I can answer when I am able.”
Argyll explained about Burckhardt, and how he thought the dealer had come in pursuit because of something he’d been told which might have come from the monastery archives.
“I know it’s a long shot. But if I can discover what it was, then I might be able to find out why he was so interested, you see,” he said.
Father Charles nodded to himself awhile, and Argyll was afraid he was disappearing into his own mind. Then he looked up with a faint smile on his face. “Mr Burckhardt, yes. I remember him. He was here last year. I’m afraid I was a little wicked with him.”
“How was that?”’
“A mechanic, if you see what I mean.”
Argyll shook his head. He didn’t see at all.
“Interested in style only and concerned to explain every thing. No appreciation of the power of these images. If people pray to her, then he saw it as a quaint example of outmoded superstition. If legends were attached to her, then he wanted to find a rational explanation which took away all the miraculous. He was cruel to other people’s beliefs. And above all he used them to make money for himself. So I’m afraid I was not as open with him as I should have been. He had to do his own work, and missed very much.”
“Oh.”
“In your case, I believe I will perhaps let you find what he did not. Do you know why?”’
“Because the painting has vanished and I might help to get it back?”’
He shook his head. “Oh, no. I have told you; she does not need your help. She will return when she wants.”
Argyll smiled.
“It is because you are kind, and you do not wish people to know it always. Often, when I am able, I go to the church to pray. I have done so several times a day for more than half a century and I like the quiet. I was there a few days ago, and I saw you come in and light a candle to her. And look embarrassed when Signora Graziani thanked you. It gave her great pleasure.”
“My Protestant conscience,” Argyll said. “It doesn’t always approve.”
“It was kind, nonetheless. To Signora Graziani as much as anyone.”
