four hours; the time had passed almost without him noticing. As he came back to the real world, he realized his back hurt and his shoulder muscles were protesting at the insensitive treatment they’d received. He began putting the books back on the shelves, then picked up the phone to see where Flavia was.
He was in a taxi minutes later.
Argyll found himself oddly hesitant when he found her. Even though Father Charles was a lunatic, he had sworn to keep his secret. On the other hand, he saw no reason why this should extend to the icon as well. And perhaps his case would seem stronger if he left out the information that he had it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. Flavia was unlikely to be impressed by being told his evidence came from a Byzantine Emperor who’d been dead for over four centuries. It cuts into your credibility. Come to think of it, and here Argyll did begin to think of it almost for the first time, it was a bit unlikely.
So he improvised a little. “I’ve been through the documents, and done a great deal of work on the side. In fact, I’ve done so much so fast my head’s spinning. And I think I’ve figured it out. The picture is—or at least your man believes it is—something called the Hodigitria. Does that mean anything to you?”’
Flavia shook her head cautiously. “I assume it’s an icon.”
“Yes. Mary. With child. That’s right. The distinctive aspect is that the child be on the left arm. There’s thousands of them, it seems. One of the most common formats.”
“So? What’s so special about this one?”’
“By tradition they all derive from a single original. Painted from the life by St Luke. So called because of where it was kept in Constantinople. It was the icon of the Byzantine empire. The protector, and the supreme emblem of the empire. As long as Constantinople had it, the city could never fall and Christianity would hold sway in the eastern Mediterranean. And had a right to hold sway there.”
“Didn’t work too well, did it?”’ Flavia commented drily.
Argyll almost felt offended at the aspersion. “Officially, it was destroyed during the final assault by the Turks. The important bit,” he said sternly, determined to make the proper excuses, “is that as far as I can see it wasn’t. It was taken out of the city to safety. So its miraculous powers were never tested. I’m sure it wouldn’t have made any difference, but there we are. It was brought to Rome by a Greek travelling under the pseudonym of Brother Angelus, and deposited in the monastery of San Giovanni, where it has stayed. Until a couple of days ago. That is what your man Charanis wants.”
“Is it the only contender?”’
“Oh, no. There are more paintings attributed to St Luke than there are to Vermeer. Three in Rome alone. From what I’ve read, the pedigrees of these others aren’t so good. Besides, that doesn’t matter. This is the only one which can claim to be the Hodigitria.”
“And Burckhardt knew this?”’
“So it seems. He was in the archives and even though I think he missed the whole story, he got enough to make some sense of it.”
“Is this thing real, Jonathan?”’
He shrugged. “Was it painted by St Luke? No; it seems to have been mentioned first in the eighth century. A Holy Fake, if you like. Whether it is the same painting, I don’t know; there’s a good chance. That’s the target, anyway. Have you found it? Come to think of it, has this Charanis man of yours?”’
She shook her head. “He’s still here, and still looking. Which gives us a chance of catching him. With Mary Verney’s cooperation.”
“She’s going to help?”’
Flavia grinned nervously. “I hope so. She doesn’t know it yet, though.”
“What’s her motive in all this?”’
Flavia shook her head. “Damned if I know. It’s not money, that’s obvious. This man seems to have a hold on her somehow. And it must be a tight grip for her to take so many risks. Do you feel like making yourself useful this evening?”’
“I’ve been useful all afternoon.”
“In that case a few extra hours won’t be noticed.”
“What do you want?”’
“Go and keep an eye on Dan Menzies for me. I’ll be round in an hour or so.”
Mary Verney was released by the police after about eight hours in the police station, and left the building with almost a light heart. She had withstood the pressure and kept her nerve. Initially she had been tempted to cooperate with Flavia; Mikis Charanis was a dangerous lunatic, and she was in too weak a position on her own.
But then Flavia overstepped. Once she knew they had no solid evidence against her, her hand was strengthened. And once she knew where the icon was, she had a motive. She could finish the job, with good luck. And surely she deserved some.
The problem, as far as she could see it, was perfectly simple. Charanis had her granddaughter and wanted the icon. She wanted her granddaughter, but didn’t have the icon to give in return. Menzies did have it—or might, she wasn’t so stupid as not to consider the possibility of Flavia being either wrong or devious—and so she would have to collect it from Menzies. Simple and easy. Just as well she had taken the trouble of finding out where he lived when she found out he was working in the church. And just as well he had never met her.
What was the alternative? Luring Charanis into a police trap? Fine; except his father would use every weapon in his considerable arsenal to get him released and would probably succeed. And even if he did go to jail, he still had his associates, and once it became clear that Mary Verney was responsible for his being in jail, then she and her granddaughter would pay a heavy price. She wanted no harm to come to her granddaughter, and did not want to spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder.
She was not someone who was used to sitting back and accepting her fate; in her mind she saw her whole life as a struggle, to protect her and hers from the outside world. That was why she’d started stealing in the first place. She was used to doing things her way, at her pace, and for her own advantage. Being pushed and corralled by thugs on the one hand and the police on the other gave her such a feeling of being squeezed that she almost felt ill. Not that she had no sympathy with Flavia; one of the curiosities about her, so obvious that even she was aware of it, was that she generally regarded herself as a law-abiding citizen. And, apart from stealing for a living, so she was. She tutted over rising crime figures she read about in the newspapers, advocated stiff penalties for criminals and, generally, blamed the parents. Which she did in her own case as well. But, usually, she always managed to put what she did into a different category. Apart from the one occasion when she had been blackmailed, she hurt no one, and destroyed nothing. A redistribution of goods. She had few moral scruples about how she had spent her life; most of the people she’d stolen from could well afford their losses. But she had no illusions either, and had an odd sense of justice. Charanis offended that and there was nothing to be done about it.
She was pouring herself a drink when the phone rang. The porter downstairs. A visitor. Her heart skipped a beat. She listened for a while, then recovered slowly.
“What a surprise,” she said coldly when he’d finished. “Perhaps you’d better come up, Mr Charanis.”
Mary hadn’t seen him for years; not since she had personally delivered a picture, and ended staying on in his house for another month in what was one of the most delightful, if poignantly short, periods of her life. The most charming, and the most exciting, man she had ever known. And then he goes and does this to her; she was certain he must be behind this. She had only encountered his kind, personal side in the past; never before been in the way stopping him getting something he wanted.
But even now, with her in her fifties and him very much older, her heart beat a little faster at the prospect of seeing him once more. And she was frightened as well; not just because of what he was doing to her, but also for fear that his ageing would confirm her own, and show her memories to be illusions.
Certainly he had changed; although as he stood there, bowed over now and old, the lopsided grin on his face and mischievous look in his eyes instantly made her begin to respond before she savagely repressed the impulse.
“A long time,” she said coolly.
“Far too long,” he replied in his thickly accented English. “It’s good to see you again, Mary.” There was a long pause as they looked at each other before he added: “How are you?”’
“It’s strange that you of all people should ask,” she replied. “Considering what you have done to me.”
He nodded. “I feared as much. You are under something of a misapprehension. I have done nothing.”
