It was a long time since anyone had accused Argyll to his face of being kind, and he wasn’t entirely certain how to react. He thought that saying “thank you” might be appropriate; so he did.
“I don’t intend to compliment. I merely state a fact which makes me believe I can trust you with some of the documents I decided not to give to Burckhardt.”
“I’m very grateful.”
“Now, give me a piece of paper and a pen, and I will tell you what to look for. I would help, but I am afraid that my mind is beginning to play tricks on me again. You must leave me now, I’m afraid.”
Argyll did as he was told, and Father Charles wrote quickly on it, and handed the paper back. “Fourth cabinet, third drawer down. At the back. Now, leave me, please.”
“It’s very kind of you …”
He waved his arm impatiently. “Leave me now. Please, go away quickly.”
Argyll spent the next eight hours reading with painful slowness; all the documents were in Latin, and he had always been painfully bad at Latin. But he felt obliged to do it himself and not call in help, and so he sweated his way through gerunds and gerundives, dictionary by his side, moving forward word by word and phrase by phrase, until he was sure he was getting the translation right.
The trouble was the documents were in no particular order; they had been gathered together almost at random, as far as he could see. A page of inductions into the monastery; pages from the daily record of events; transcripts from the papal ports, bills of loading and unloading of ships from the year 1453. A record of a papal address. A note of a nobleman’s landholdings. Remarks on religious festivals, mainly to do with the festivals of the Virgin. Argyll was out of his depth. It was obvious that it was all important and relevant; Father Charles had done everything except spell it out to him word by word. But he still couldn’t figure it out.
But he felt captured by the old man’s spirit, and would have felt it a betrayal to call in some expert from the classics department, or a medievalist who would have been able to run through the manuscripts in a matter of minutes and tell him exactly what they contained. This had been given to him and him alone, and it was surely not too much to ask that he work it out by himself. Even if it took today, tomorrow and the entire weekend as well.
He had a cigarette break, sitting in the sun on a stone in the courtyard, thinking absently about what he had read so far, trying but failing to make sense of it. Perhaps the second or third bundles would give a clue. He noticed Menzies coming and going in the church. He waved, but didn’t feel like talking. Father Jean came out of the building and drove away in a tiny little Fiat. And from the outside he dimly heard the sound of singing.
Such was his mood that it took several minutes before he realized that this was strange, and even more before he got up to see what was happening. Going out of the door, he looked up the street to the church entrance, and saw a group of twenty people, mostly women, mainly old, standing and chanting. Some were holding crosses, or rosaries, and around them was a second group, this time of onlookers, among them a photographer and a man Argyll vaguely recognized as a reporter. He walked over and asked what was going on.
“They say it’s a vigil,” the reporter said with a faint smile of bemusement.
“Goodness.”
“They are going to stay until the painting is brought back.”
“It may be a long wait.”
The reporter nodded, and stared glumly at the crowd, wondering how he should angle his story. Touching tale of piety? Or whimsical story of Roman superstition, played for laughs. A tough one.
Argyll left him to his dilemma and wandered back into the monastery in case the reporter thought that he might have some inside knowledge.
Flavia had anticipated having to wait for Fostiropoulos in Castello’s that evening, and wasn’t disappointed. She was on her third cigarette and second bowl of nuts before he bounced in, beaming happily. He kissed her enthusiastically on each cheek, twice, for all the world as though she was his closest friend, and ordered champagne. Here we go, she thought. One of those evenings. Still, it was good champagne.
“What do you think of our mutual friend di Antonio?”’ he asked as he concentrated on filling the glasses.
“Who?”’
“The man who organized the meeting this morning.”
“Oh. Him. Not a lot.”
“A fusspot. A major fusspot. All diplomatic services have them, I’m afraid. File marked, “not to be allowed out of Rome”. A pity, but there you are. That’s government for you. Over the years, it accumulates all sorts of strange people. The fusspots, the incompetents, the downright malevolent. Don’t you think? They silt up the works, but for some reason no one ever thinks of getting rid of them.”
“You speak from experience.”
He smiled. “Believe me. Personally, I think there should be a revolution every twenty-five years. Clear everyone out, and start again. Mao was right, although it’s a bit unfashionable to say that nowadays.”
“From my experience, you always end up with the same people in charge again,” Flavia said, vaguely aware that there might be a sort of under-conversation going on here. “However much you try to get rid of them.”
“Of course. But not all. And you can always recognize them. The style remains the same. Take my line of business.”
“Spying.”
“Trade, Flavia, trade. You don’t mind if I call you Flavia?”’
“Not at all.”
“Gyorgos. Anyway, you see, in the good old days, we were worried about spies and communists and all that sort of thing. We knew what we were doing and why we were doing it. Guarding the flanks of Europe, I think. Then, pouf! All change. Strange things start to happen.”
“Such as?”’
“It’s a bit odd. People lose their sense of orientation. The old certainties vanish, so they go back to even older ones. A traditional enemy vanishes, so they concentrate on one which is even more traditional. Do you see what I mean?”’
“Not a clue.”
“Really? You surprise me.”
“Have another go.”
“Old Charanis. A strange man. What do you know about him?”’
“Not much; I’ve only ever heard of him as an art collector and man about the galleries, although I thought he’d given that up. I remember a dealer complaining about it once. Didn’t he announce he’d more pictures than he knew what to do with?”’
Fostiropoulos smiled. “That’s correct. He got old, began to think about mortality and became pious. And gave up old masters and has turned instead to donating works of art to churches. Such as icons. But he’s even given that up now.”
“Still, even you must admit it is something more than a coincidence.”
“Perhaps. He’s an odd man. The strangest thing about him is that he is a fervent democrat.”
“Why is that strange?”’
“When we had the coup back in the sixties, he was against the colonels. About the only member of the hundred families who own Greece who was. Admittedly it was because he thought it was bad for business, but also because in his soul he’s a romantic. Greece the cradle of democracy. Virulently anti-communist, but no supporter of these nationalistic thugs who took over.”
“So he’s as pure as the driven snow.”
“Used to be an obsessive collector, so they say. With magnificent results, as well. The national museum is trying to get his collection left to them in his will. It’s a hard slog, not least because old habits die hard in someone like him. He wants so many tax breaks and concessions and contracts in return that it’s not yet certain it’ll work. On top of that, so I’m told, the director of the museum is balking a little at one or two pieces he owns.”
“Oh, yes?”’
“Origins a bit doubtful. No one knows where they came from, or how they got there. Still, that’s irrelevant.”
“Is it?”’
“It is. Because he hasn’t bought anything for five years or more and refuses absolutely even to consider
