suggested they were serious. A surprising number of them were young, as well. Yesterday nearly all had been old women, brought by sentiment and a feeling that yet another part of their universe had been forcibly taken away from them. Now ten or fifteen were young, some with the intense air of theology students, others drifting Europeans in search of something and hoping to find it on the steps of this old monastery. Argyll talked to them for a few moments; one seemed conventional in religion, another talked vaguely but intensely about the Great Mother. Two at least had thought it was a good place to spend the night. All appeared to have passed by and sat down for reasons which even they did not understand. They seemed perfectly tranquil and certain about it all, but Argyll felt very uneasy. He noticed Signora Graziani sitting on her own, and said hello to her. She smiled at him, and seemed uninterested when he said that the police were still at work. She didn’t appear to think it was necessary for the police to do anything, but was grateful for their efforts.
A little unnerved, Argyll went into the monastery, to find that the members of the order were even more jittery than he was. They had divided into two camps; one group regarded the show of piety on the steps as a nuisance that would have to be endured until it faded away of its own accord. The others felt that the whole business was an absurd display of sentimentalism and were inclined to employ more positive action to shoo people away. Only Father Paul, in fact, seemed perfectly tranquil and even quite pleased at what was going on outside.
“It’s real,” he said softly as he stood by the gate and placidly regarded the group on the steps outside. “This is how great movements have started, from simple, popular piety. Do you know, I think I am the only person here to have considered the possibility that this might be the work of God? Don’t you think that is strange?”’
“I suppose it is. I don’t really know. I was brought up an Anglican; I’ve never really had much to do with religion.”
Father Paul smiled at what he took to be a joke, closed the door and made sure that Argyll had everything he wanted.
“I suggested that maybe the doors of the church should be flung open, to allow people inside in case it rains,” he said as he prepared to go off. “The idea was turned down for fear of disturbing Mr Menzies.” He shook his head and left Argyll to his labours.
The file was just as thick, and almost as impenetrable; with the sort of intense concentration that ultimately produces a raging headache, Argyll laboured in silence, translating, reading, thinking and noting. At least he made progress. in 1454, the monastery admitted two people; both, irritatingly if predictably, took new names for the occasion—Brother Felix and Brother Angelus—and neither was referred to by any other name. But, given the date, and the fact that there was a note that baptism was especially waived for them, it was reasonable to assume that they were fresh off the boat from the ruins of Constantinople, especially as one was in late middle age, and the other was described as a widower.
So, two new monks, and it would surely have been unusual for them not to have made the usual contribution to the order’s coffers when admitted. Where, Argyll thought, was the ledger of deeds and goods? And had they brought that icon, anyway? He leaned back in his chair and tapped his teeth with the end of his pencil, then smiled broadly. Like a crossword puzzle, he thought. Obvious when you know the answer. He bent over and crossed Brother Felix from the list. No point worrying about him. The picture had been brought by an angel, and here was Brother Angel himself, in the right place at the right moment. You could almost hear the wings flapping.
So, Brother Angel, he thought. Where did you get this fine piece of work? Did you pick it up on the way to the port, looting it from some church as it went up in flames and you dodged through the back streets to avoid the enemy soldiers? Was it an old family heirloom you’d sent on ahead, realizing disaster was looming? Did you steal it even from one of your fellow exiles so you could buy your way into a comfortable monastery when you reached journey’s end? What sort of person were you? Priest, nobleman or simple subject?
All good questions, which the documents in front of him did not answer. He didn’t even know who had arranged the collection. A strange assemblage it was, as well, different sorts of papers, dating from the fifteenth to the eighteenth centuries, brought together without rhyme or reason. But some body, and not too long ago, had collected them. Father Charles, perhaps, before he’d taken to running the order. If it had been him, he had then locked them all away in this special file, and allowed no one to see them. There seemed little point; there was nothing even remotely terrible, or even interesting, so far.
He eyed the next brown paper folder warily; perhaps in here? Somehow he hoped not; seventy-five miscellaneous pages of Latin in varieties of bad handwriting. It could take him weeks to get through that, if he was being careful. He really should have paid more attention during his Latin lessons. How was he to know it would ever come in useful, after all? He flipped through the pages, hoping that by some miracle there would be passages in Italian to make his life easier, and groaned as he found exactly the opposite. Greek, for heaven’s sake. Ten pages in Greek. Life is very unfair, sometimes.
It was no good. He simply couldn’t do it. He stared moodily at the pages again, then shook himself. Nothing for it. He’d just have to hope that Father Charles was operational this morning. And willing to help.
The Gemelli hospital, where all the best religious illnesses are treated, was a mixture of the antiquated in architecture and the advanced in equipment. Merely because the nurses were nuns did not mean they were any less ferocious than their counterparts in more secular institutions; the sick threaten to disrupt the smooth running of the hospital, and visitors were a lower form of pond life whose mere existence was an affront to anyone seriously interested in health care. Getting in to see Father Xavier was, therefore, slightly more difficult than Flavia had anticipated; by the time she had battled her way through three floors of obstruction to Father Xavier’s floor, she was feeling both punch-drunk and irritated. At least he was finally conscious.
The last stage was easier, though not because of the nurses in charge; rather, the priest Father Jean had sent down to watch over the superior came forward and offered his protection; he held very much greater authority than a mere member of the police could ever have.
“Thank you,” Flavia said gratefully when the last nurse had pulled in her fangs and retreated.
“They are very protective, I find,” he said mildly. “And you are the third visitor today. They are concerned he may be tired out too easily.”
“Who else has been?”’
“Father Paul, to see how he is doing. And another man from the police. That is why the nurses were cross, I think. They expect you to coordinate things better …”
“Somebody else from the police …? Who?”’
“I don’t know. A very kind gentleman, very gentle indeed with Father Xavier.”
Flavia’s irritation was growing apace. It must have been one of Alberto’s minions-probably his sidekick called Francesco and she thought she had a clear agreement that questioning the old priest would be her job. Alberto hadn’t even wanted to send anyone. He was quite within his rights to change his mind, of course, but he could have told her in advance. That was only fair.
“Late forties, stout, balding, permanent sweat, slightly smelly?”’ she said, knowing that her description of her colleague would be recognized.
“Oh, no,” he said. “Not at all. He was in his thirties, I’d say. Very well-dressed, but a lot of stubble. But a very assured air about him, you know. Looked unusually chic for a policeman, in my view. But, of course, I’m not Italian myself …”
Flavia handed him a photograph of Mikis Charanis.
“Yes. That’s him.”
Flavia closed her eyes in despair as the details sank in. “When was he here?”’
“About fifteen minutes ago. That’s when he left. He was only here for ten minutes.”
“And have you seen Father Xavier since?”’
“No. I just sat out here …”
Flavia walked quickly to the door, brushed aside the remaining nurse guarding it and walked straight into the room, hoping desperately that her worst nightmares were not about to come true.
Father Xavier peered at her with mild interest from his bed. “Good morning, signorina,” he said, as alive and as well as could be expected in the circumstances. Certainly, he had not acquired a bullet in the brain recently. And for that, Flavia was profoundly grateful. The fact that it was mere luck, that Charanis could quite easily have killed the man had he been minded to do so, did not make her feel any better at all. Damn it, wasn’t Alberto meant to have put a man on the door?
She sat down heavily on the only chair available, and breathed deeply as she recovered herself. No point, she
