ran away from Charanis’s collapsed body and gathered in a large pool in the gutter.
Flavia recovered her senses first; Giulia was standing looking down at her dress and the red stain that had spread down it. “Call an ambulance,” she said once it was clear that she hadn’t been injured. “Quickly.”
And she bent on her knee to feel for Charanis’s pulse. It was a waste of time. A crowd was gathering, talking nervously and excitedly, and she should have taken control and made sure they kept their distance. But she didn’t. She just sat beside the body and stared into space. She had, no idea what had happened or why.
She didn’t notice the one person who could have explained it to her. At the back of the crowd, a small old man with grey hair and a grim look on his face had watched it all stonily and impassively. From the moment he had left Mary, he had worked hard. He had made sure she was followed every step of the way to keep her safe. And when she had told him where the handover was to be, he had given his orders. He felt it was his duty to be there. In all his long life he had often been ruthless and often cruel, but he had never been a coward and had never walked away from his responsibilities. He fixed his mistakes, and he had now fixed his biggest mistake. After a few moments, he turned round and walked down the street to where his limousine was waiting to take him to the airport.
18
Argyll’s section of the city was less violent, but hardly more tranquil. He didn’t know about the incipient elevation of Father Paul; nor, as yet, did Father Paul, who went into the meeting that had been hurriedly called hoping that he might be able to make out his case, yet again, for being allowed to go home. No; Argyll’s disturbance came from the bundle of documents that he was inching his way through, painfully, word by word and with frequent references to the volume of teach yourself ancient Greek that he had borrowed from the library. If what Father Charles had told him was true, rather than senile fantasy, then a lot of the bits of paper were missing. That hardly bothered him; there was enough to suggest that the general outline was accurate enough, even though proof of the identity of Brother Angelus seemed hard to come by. Practically speaking it didn’t matter, although it was tiresome.
The trouble came from the long reflective pauses that his labours forced him to make. it was a boring job that he was doing, and he was tired. The pauses, as he stared vacantly out of the window, got longer, and the thoughts that filled his mind as more conscious activity took over became more haphazard and random. And, ultimately, more provoking.
For example, he found himself considering the one little detail which, as far as he could tell, everyone else had forgotten about entirely. Which was, if none of the obvious candidates had bashed Father Charles on the head, who had? If the refuse collectors had seen no one but Burckhardt and Mary Verney leave by the church’s main door, how had it got out of the building?
He had a meditative stab at the irregular subjunctive for a while, then considered another matter. He had bought the shopping at the market that day. Now why did that occur to him, apart from the fact that he had to do the same again today? And something else. Burckhardt had a bag with him. Too small, by the sound of it, to fit the picture in. Must have been the money, and he must have left disappointed. If Father Xavier had come to the church shortly before, he must have unlocked the door. He was then attacked. Burckhardt arrived and left without the picture. Therefore the picture disappeared before the door was locked and could not … Did that stand to reason? It did, he thought. It did.
He stood up. A man can only stand so much Greek in one day, and in Argyll’s case the limit was about two lines of the stuff. He’d have another go at Father Charles. He could read it to him, if he was in his right mind. If not, then who knew what he might tell him today? Might conceivably tell him where Atlantis is. Or the lost Treasure of the Templars. Besides, there was no one else around. Everyone had scurried into the library with earnest looks on their faces and had not yet emerged.
Father Charles was not only aware, he seemed in better form than before, even pleased to have a visitor. He took the proffered manuscript with a light smile.
“Do they not teach Greek in English schools?”’ he asked with surprise.
“A bit rusty,” Argyll explained.
“Oh. What have you learned so far?”’
It was like an exam and, as the old man clearly had no remembrance of what he had said the previous day, Argyll responded in a traditional manner. He cheated, and laid out a brief summary of the conversation.
“It sounds unlikely, but I wondered whether this monk, this Brother Angelus, was some high dignitary of the eastern empire. And that he brought the icon with him.”
Father Charles’s eyes twinkled. “Very good, sir. Very good. I’m impressed. He was, as you say, a high dignitary, whose identity is unknown.”
“Is it?”’
The old man nodded. “It is. A very closely guarded secret at the time, and a very closely guarded secret now.”
“It was the Emperor.”
Father Charles raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think that? There is no evidence.”
“Yes, there is. But you are sitting on it. You took it out of the folder.”
“Goodness, that was very clever of you.” He looked puzzled. “I really can’t imagine how you figured that out.”
Argyll decided not to tell him.
“Still, you are right. It was the Emperor.”
“So why hide the information?”’
“To preserve his memory from people like you. And those other people who came nosing around. It would spoil the story, don’t you think? The image of the courageous last Emperor, falling on the walls in the midst of the battle; it is one of the great moments of our history, I always think. How sad if it had to be replaced by a tale of his sneaking on a ship, leaving his men and hiding out in a monastery for the last miserable years of his life.”
“But he was planning a counter-attack. Wasn’t he?”’
“Yes. I believe so, but like most of his projects it came to nothing. His main supporter, Pope Callixtus, died and his successor was more interested in nepotism and works of art than in the safety of Christendom. Constantine—that’s the Emperor, by the way—died a year or so later. Suddenly.”
“How suddenly?”’
“He was struck down by violent stomach pains one evening, after dinner. He died in great agony two days later. Personally, I think it had all the signs of poisoning. That would not have been surprising. There were a large number of people who had a vested interest in the papacy not wasting money on crusades. More for them. Besides, everyone was already negotiating deals with the Turks. Another war would not have been in the interests of the papacy, nor of Venice or Genoa. Constantine was a dreamer and an embarrassment. And he died, allowing the story of his heroism to live on.”
“And you’re making sure that happens.”
Father Charles nodded. “I am not such a vandal that I have destroyed anything. But all the essential bits of paper are well hidden. It would take months of searching to piece the story together again, even if you knew what you were looking for. Do you know what the icon is?”’
“Yes. The Hodigitria.”
Again Father Charles indicated his approval. It was strange, Argyll thought. Like talking to two entirely different people.
“A leap of the imagination on your part, and very impressive, I must say. Yes. That is what it is. Painted by St Luke himself, and left by the Emperor in the monastery under the guardianship of his servant Gratian and his family. He gave instructions that it should never leave the walls of the monastery unless it returned in state to a Christian Constantinople. And cursed be he who disregards that charge. The Emperor himself swore to destroy anyone who laid impious hands on it, and got his servant to swear the same.”
And then, with a leap of the imagination which was real this time, rather than fake, Argyll knew exactly what had happened. It was so clear and obvious, that he was slightly surprised he had not figured it out before.
“You were in that church that morning, weren’t you? When Father Xavier was attacked?”’
He nodded. “It is my habit, when I am well, to pass an hour in contemplation early in the morning, before the others get up. That morning I was indeed well enough.”
“So you saw what happened?”’
