This time Flavia lost her temper. “I know you don’t. Menzies does,” she said angrily. “He took the thing home to clean it. And won’t let us have it back until tomorrow when he’s finished. He might have told us, but he didn’t, and it’s not the point in any case. The point is that you came here to steal it and it went wrong. One man died and another was put in hospital. Now, tell me, what happened?”’
A third shake of her head, although this time a slight glint in the eyes showed that she knew she’d won. She had kept her nerve; Flavia had gone too far. “I have nothing to say on this matter at all. Charge me or let me go.”
Flavia slammed the file shut and strode out of the cell, then leant heavily against the cool of the concrete wall.
“Well?”’ the man on duty asked. “What am I to do with her?”’
“Keep her for another few hours, then let her go.” She marched back to her office to consider what she had done. Then she took a taxi to the monastery to see Dan Menzies.
Argyll’s quest for an easy solution to his own Greek problem met an early reverse as he climbed the stairs to Father Charles’s grim little room. He met Father Paul coming down, as calm and serene as ever.
“I’m afraid I do not feel that would be a good idea,” he said after Argyll had explained. “He is not well at the moment.”
“I wouldn’t detain him long. But he could save me an awful lot of time. He’s given me a puzzle and as far as I can see he already knows what the answer is.”
Father Paul shook his head. “You can try, of course. But I’m afraid the illness has overcome him again. It is difficult to get much sense out of him, and you would not be able to rely on anything you did hear. His dementia, when it comes, is overpowering.”
“How long does it last?”’
“It depends. Sometimes a few hours, sometimes days.”
“I can’t wait days.”
Father Paul looked helpless. “I’m afraid there is nothing I can say to assist you. By all means go and see him; even if he doesn’t understand I think that human company is a solace to him. I try to visit him myself whenever possible. He found me and brought me into the order, so I owe him a great deal and it is a pleasure. But I think you will get little from it.”
“I’ll try anyway. He doesn’t get, ah, aggressive, does he?”’
“Oh no, not at all. Not physically.”
“He shouts? Just so I’m ready for it, you understand.”
“He can be very frightening. He says terrible things. And sometimes …”
“Sometimes what?”’
“He speaks in tongues.”
Father Paul was obviously struck by this last manifestation of the old man’s madness; Argyll found it the least alarming of all prospects.
As long as he gives a running translation, he thought to himself as he climbed the last few stairs after telling Father Paul he’d try anyway, he can do a mime act for all I care.
Still, dealing with madness was a slightly unnerving prospect; he had seen far too many gothic horror movies for him not to have a sense of trepidation as he knocked on the door and waited for a reply. There was none, so, after waiting a few minutes with his ear to the door, he quietly opened it, and peered in.
It was dark again, but this time he knew where to look and, through the thin slices of light coming through the closed shutters, he saw Father Charles on his knees in front of his chair. Praying. Bad manners to interrupt someone while they are praying. He started to back out.
Then Father Charles spoke, lifting his head, but not turning round. Greek, by the sound of it. Too fast for him, though.
Argyll stood there, wondering what to do next, then Father Charles turned and gestured for him to come in, repeating the phrase. Argyll was relieved; not only did the old man seem sufficiently aware to realize he was there, his face had little of the madness Argyll had expected. Total serenity and calmness, in fact, his eyes half closed, his gestures slow and almost languid. He looked at Argyll, held out his hand and waited.
Argyll walked over and took it, but the slight frown that crossed Father Charles’s face indicated something else was expected from him. He didn’t want it shaken, didn’t want to be helped up …
With a burst of inspiration, and not a little audacity, he bent over and kissed it. Bingo. Father Charles nodded and allowed himself to be helped into his chair. He gestured for Argyll to sit down on the floor, at his feet. Argyll obeyed and watched carefully for a new clue.
More Greek; Argyll nodded as though he understood. Then what sounded like Latin, then a language which was way outside his range. What had the man specialized in? Sanskrit? Assyrian? Hebrew? Could be any of those. Father Charles looked concerned when he realized he wasn’t getting through, and tried again. He swept through German and what sounded like Bulgarian before coming up with a sentence in French. Good enough. Argyll nodded furiously, and replied.
“It is your duty and privilege to remain quiet,” Father Charles said with a tone of regret in his voice at having to issue the reprimand. “I may have fallen far and been forsaken, but you will give me the honours that are mine. So much was I promised.”
“Sorry. Sir.”
“And you will address me in the appropriate manner.”
“Forgive me,” Argyll said contritely. “But what is that?”’
“Your most Holy Majesty.”
“You’re a monk,” Argyll said. “Wouldn’t “Father” be more appropriate?”’
Father Charles paused, and peered at Argyll closely. “I see my disguise works. Who are you, young man? I recognize you. I have seen you before. And you don’t know?”’
Not much to say to that. Argyll shook his head.
“Yes, I am a monk, so it is said. I dress in these clothes and pretend. But that is for the world; not for me. You come from his Holiness, Callixtus?”’
Argyll smiled. He didn’t know much about religion, but he knew who the pope was. And Callixtus he wasn’t.
“And he never said,” Father Charles continued, sounding almost amused. “Not even to you. How very like him. If you are to be my emissary, though, you must know. Otherwise you may make an error and ruin everything. But you must swear a vow of silence, that you will never reveal anything beyond this room, not even in the direst necessity. Do you so swear?”’
What the hell? Completely potty, but strangely touching. At least he had a considerable amount of grandeur in his madness. Argyll swore away.
Father Charles nodded. “Know then the truth as I reveal it to your ears. I am Constantinos XI Paleologos Dragases, Emperor of Byzantium, Noblest soul, God’s vicegerent on earth, heir to Augustus and Constantine.”
Pretty grand. Argyll gaped at him in astonishment. The Emperor Constantine smiled condescendingly. “I know. You thought me dead, yet here I sit. But how I am lost, ruler of half the earth, hiding and disguised in this place, pretending to be a monk and having to celebrate in secret, in a little back room so that no one will know of my continued life. Only two or three people know it, and now you are one of them. You must keep this secret, lest all be ruined. The Emperor died on the walls of Constantinople, falling to the infidel. So the world believes, and must continue to believe until all is ready. Then he will return, sweeping down under the protection of her likeness, to restore the faith. But surprise is of the essence. A little trick, but justifiable, in the circumstances, don’t you think?”’
Argyll nodded.
“It will take time, of course,” the old man said thoughtfully, but with a glint of battle in his eye as he plotted in his mind. “But our situation is not as hopeless as it seems. The Venetians and Genoese will help; will have to help because of their commercial interests. George of Serbia will do the same, because he knows he is next. The knights of St John on Malta can be relied on, I think. And there is also the Morea.
“But,” he said, leaning forward intently, “it must be done correctly, this time. Our forces are few, and we can make no mistakes. If I am to regain my throne, everyone must know what to do and when to do it. I figure a three-pronged attack. The knights land in Anatolia and pin down the forces there. George sweeps across the
