“The Rome police, for one.”
“Ah, yes. So they do. What happened?”’
“They pulled me in. Quite right too. This has been such a disaster I might as well have begged them to arrest me. Fortunately, all they have is strong suspicion. But I want this over and done with before they get anything more. So let’s get on with it. If you want the icon, you have to keep to the deal. Let Louise go.”
“I have to see it first.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Oh, yes, it is. You will show me the picture. From a sufficient distance, if you wish.”
She thought fast. “Very well. In an hour and a half you should be by the Ponte Umberto on the Lungotevere Marzio side. By the bus stop. I will come there and show you the picture. Then you will release Louise. When I have confirmation from her mother that she is free and unharmed, I will tell you where to get it.”
There was a long pause from the other end.
“One hour, then,” he said.
Mary Verney put down the phone, her heart beating hard. Now came the difficult bit.
“There we are. What do you think? Of course, it’s a bit rough.”
Dan Menzies stood back nervously, and allowed Flavia to pick up the icon and turn it over in her hands.
“The face isn’t right,” he went on nervously, like a chef fishing for compliments on his work.
Flavia studied the face carefully.
“And some of the scratches and scraped bits aren’t perfect,” he added. Flavia switched her attention to these as well.
“But I’m quite pleased with the back. Quite pleased. Although with a bit more time …”
Flavia put it down, stood back and nodded. “I think you’ve done a great job,” she said eventually. “Better than I could have hoped for.”
“Do you? Do you really?”’ Menzies said gratefully. “Of course, it is pretty good. Not many people could have done that, not in the time. Someone like d’Onofrio, you know. He’d still be picking the wood.”
“We chose well,” Flavia said reassuringly. “I’m delighted. There is one thing, though. It still smells of paint, a bit. Is there anything you can do about that? I hope it won’t matter, but you never know. We have some latitude as Mary Verney will think you’ve been restoring it, but I reckon she will spot it if there is too much.”
“How long have we got?”’
She looked at her watch. “Fifteen minutes maximum.”
Menzies thought for a second. “Microwave,” he said.
“Pardon?”’
“Stick it in.”
“Do you want it switched on?”’
“God, no. I don’t want to cook it. I just want a fairly airtight container.”
He fussed around fetching ingredients, and put them into a small metal bowl with a candle underneath.
“What’s that?”’
“Incense. Covers a multitude of smells and gives anything the true odour of sanctity. Plus one or two other ingredients that will smoke and give off a smell.”
“Such as?”’
Menzies grinned. “Dirty socks. Wool ones. Old friend taught me that. Ten or fifteen minutes should be enough to neutralize the smell of paint. Again, not a permanent job, but it should get us through the day. The knack is to make sure they smoulder, and don’t burst into flame. Otherwise I’ll have to start again.”
Certainly, the smell that came out of the microwave when he opened it up a quarter of an hour later had no traces of paint in it. And it was equally evident that the microwave would never be quite the same again, but no matter. Expenses would cover it, if all went well. And if all didn’t go well, she’d have more to worry about.
“Good,” she said. “Now I’ll have to go. Could you keep an eye on it until someone comes along for it? It’ll be a woman in her fifties, who’ll tell you she’s in the police.”
“By all means,” said the suddenly friendly and cooperative restorer. “No problem.”
And Flavia left. Paolo rang her up a few minutes later; Mrs Verney, he said, had left as well. Here we go, she thought.
Fathers Jean and Xavier sat facing each other in the hospital room, neither really knowing what to say. Father Xavier seemed tranquil and content, Father Jean was more perturbed. It was a lot to absorb, to be told that your superior general had acted in a way which was so—well, immoral. To go against the perfectly clear and unambiguous vote of the council, however narrow the majority, was shocking. Unheard of, in fact. It was even more disturbing that Xavier had chosen to tell him, of all people. The person who was most likely to act on the news. It was exactly what he’d wanted, of course; a handle to stop the man’s reforming tendencies.
And he couldn’t do it. There was no secret of the confessional involved, of course; but in the past few days he’d thought hard, reconsidered his own behaviour and judged it savagely. Had he known this a few days ago, it would have been very different. Now he felt that he should apologize, not the other way around. Rather than give his unquestioned obedience, as was Xavier’s due, he had done his best to undermine his authority. He had caused this situation, and was responsible, every bit as much as the superior.
“I will of course resign as head of the order,” Father Xavier said after a while. “And I am sure you will be elected in my stead. Perhaps that would be the best.”
“This may come as a surprise, but I would beg you to reconsider,” Father Jean replied quietly. “This whole business was unfortunate, but I do not think you should resign. I was as much at fault as you, for not giving you the support that was your due. I am prepared to say so in council.”
Father Xavier looked up, half wondering what his old foe was up to now. “That is kind, Jean. But no use, I’m afraid. I will have to relinquish the post. My error was too great, and is bound to become public knowledge eventually. I do not wish to bring dishonour on the house. And, of course, my injuries will not mend so quickly.”
“The doctors say you will make a full recovery.”
“Eventually, no doubt. I hope so. But it will take time, and in that period I will be quite incapable of discharging my duties. It would be very much better if I stepped down. You must take over.”
Father Jean shook his head. “Not long ago I would have grabbed the opportunity with both hands,” he said with a faint smile. “But now I must conclude that I am not an appropriate person to lead us. I am too old and hidebound. If we choose someone else, and choose well, this episode can become a great turning point for us, rather than a period of sadness.”
“We?”’ Father Xavier said. “We? I feel that you do not mean the council when you use that word.”
“No. If we can decide on someone, and both recommend him, then the council will agree. You know that as well as I do.”
“If we can agree. Who would you recommend?”’
Father Jean shook his head, and drew the chair closer to the bed.
“How about Father Bertrand?”’ he asked. “A man of no known political views and a good administrator.”
“And someone dedicated to his hospital in Bulgaria. You’d never get him to agree to come back. A good man, of course, but not for us. I thought maybe Father Luc.”
Father Jean laughed. “Oh no. A saintly man, I admit. But he makes me seem radical. We’d be up all night flagellating ourselves with birch rods again if he took over. No, sir. Spare us from Father Luc.”
“Marc?”’
“Too old.”
“He’s younger than I am.”
“Still too old.”
“Francois?”’
“Terrible administrator. We’d be bankrupt in a year. More bankrupt.”
They paused for thought.
“Difficult, isn’t it?”’ said Father Xavier.
“What we need is someone new, not wedded to any faction, who could bring in fresh ideas. All these people we’ve been suggesting, they’re no good at all. We all know exactly what they’d do. We need someone from the outside, in effect. Someone as different as Father Paul.”
