He smiled, then shook his head. “Not a thing.”
“You’re lying.”
“Yes,” he agreed equably. “I am.”
“Did you take the icon?”’
“Of course not. She doesn’t need me to look after her.”
Argyll looked at him steadily, and Father Charles gestured around the almost bare room. “You may search if you wish.”
“No,” Argyll said. “I don’t think I will.”
“She is safe, you see. She is under divine protection as laid down by the Emperor and nobody can harm her. So there is no reason for the police to concern themselves any longer.” He looked at Argyll, in no doubt that he would understand. Argyll nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”
Argyll walked thoughtfully back to the archive room so he could tidy up and put away the documents he’d no longer be needing. Caravaggio would just have to wait until next week. At the foot of the stairs that led up to Father Charles’s room, standing in the open doorway and staring across the courtyard, he saw a gloomy-looking Father Paul. He looked terribly tired, as though he’d aged thirty years in the past few days. Argyll coughed slightly; Father Paul turned, then stood politely out of the way.
“Cheer up,” Argyll said, when he had seen a bit more of that despondent expression. “Things can’t be that bad.”
“They can, Mr Argyll,” he replied slowly. “They really can.”
“Not allowing you to go back home, eh? Sorry to hear that.”
“No, they’re not. Ever.”
“Surely in another year …?”’
“We had a council meeting. Father Xavier sent a message he was stepping down.”
“Reasonable. It will take a long time for him to be on his feet again.”
“Yes. And they elected a successor.”
“Ah. Who’s the lucky man, then? Can’t say I envy him.”
“It is myself.”
“Oh.” Argyll peered with genuine concern at the man’s face and realized the pained look wasn’t merely a conventional disguise for satisfied ambition. “Oh, dear. That must have been a bit of a shock.”
Father Paul looked at him sadly.
“Can’t you say no? Say you’re too young?”’
“I did.”
“Too inexperienced?”’
“I tried that as well.”
“Married with three children and a drinking problem?”’ Father Paul smiled. Only faintly, but it was a start. “I didn’t think of that. But I doubt it would have served me. You see, we are under vows of obedience. We cannot refuse.”
“How long is this job for?”’
“It is a life sentence. Or until infirmity renders you unable to discharge your duties.”
“You look terribly healthy to me.”
He nodded.
“You really don’t want the job?”’
“I can think of nothing I want less, Mr Argyll.” Argyll saw that he was close to tears. “I want to go home. There is so much to be done there. This is not my place at all. Every day in Rome is a torment.”
“Who was it said the only people who should be given power are those who don’t want it?”’ He thought. “Can’t remember. But I think you will be a wonderful superior. It may not have been very kind of them, but for the sake of the order I doubt they could possibly have done better. It was an inspired choice.”
Another twitch. “I fear you are wrong.”
“Listen,” Argyll said kindly. “You know Flavia?”’ Father Paul nodded.
“She’s been offered the job of running the Art Theft Department. She’s terrified at the idea, and has been in a bad mood for days, especially as she thinks I don’t want her to take it because she will be working even harder than she does now. It’s a lot of responsibility, plenty of trouble when mistakes happen and she will always be compared to her predecessor. But she will be very good at it, however frightened she is.”
“You think she should take it?”’
“I do. She’ll be miserable otherwise. And she knows, really, she can do it well. And so do you. You both need practice, that’s all. Bottando knows what he is doing. And so do the people who put you up for this job.”
Father Paul smiled wanly. “That’s kind of you. But they need a politician and an accountant, not someone like me.”
“You can hire those. What do you need an accountant for, anyway?”’
“Father Xavier, it seems, had lost a great deal of money on rather foolish ventures.”
“Ah. I see. So you’re in the hole. How much?”’
“A substantial amount.”
“Why don’t you sell something else? Like that Caravaggio. It shouldn’t be there, anyway. Even Menzies thinks it looks silly.”
“Considering what happened last time …”
“Very different. This time you should have a proper intermediary, acting with a reputable institution. One with a lot of free wall space. You’d get a fair amount for it.”
“How much?”’
“That depends. It’s really only attributed to the great man. But, if it can be pinned down, you’re talking about several million dollars. If not, then you’re still likely to get a couple of hundred thousand. It’s not one of his best, and would require work to establish its credentials.”
He had grabbed Father Paul’s interest, there was no doubt about that. But then the priest’s shoulders sagged again. “We need the money now, Mr Argyll. Within a week. It must take longer than that to sell a picture.”
Argyll nodded. “I don’t know that I can help you there. I could make discreet enquiries for you, if you like.”
“You?”’
“Oh, yes. I used to be a dealer.”
Father Paul thought carefully. “No harm in that, I suppose. Although I’m afraid the council is in a recalcitrant mood. I doubt they’ll agree to anything concerning pictures after last time.”
“Better get the icon back then.”
Father Paul laughed. “That, I fear, would be something of a miracle.”
““Oh, ye of little faith,”” Argyll said. “I always wanted to say that to a priest. Miracles do happen, you know.”
“They are rarely there when you want them.”
“I have the same trouble with taxis. But they do turn up.”
“I don’t know whether we deserve one.”
“Do you have to earn them?”’
“Are you teaching me theology, Mr Argyll?”’ the priest said with another ghost of a smile.
“Oh, no. Just reminding you that you shouldn’t give up hope. You’ve barely started. What would you do if the icon came back? Sell that too?”’
He shook his head fervently. “No. She would be returned to her proper place. And the doors would be opened again.”
“Is that an official decision?”’
He thought, then smiled. “Yes. Why not? My first command.”
“Good. Could you spare me half an hour or so this evening? About nine?”’
When Argyll got home half an hour later, he found Flavia slumped in the armchair with a stiff drink in her hand. She looked exhausted, and moody.
“How did it go?”’
