Rome in advance, that was part of the price. Restoring this dubious Caravaggio was a way of keeping himself occupied. A work of charity, just the sort of thing to arouse favourable comment. And a perfect excuse to be in the right place, talking to the right people as they made up their minds. It would be the high-point of his career, if he could get it. No one was going to stand in his way.
Suddenly, he was aware of a presence standing behind him, watching what he was doing. Bloody tourists, he thought. He tried to ignore the unpleasant sensation that tickled at his concentration, and succeeded for a while. But he ended up trying so hard not to be bothered that eventually he made a small mistake. His patience snapped.
“Piss off,” he said furiously, turning round to face the man. His eyes narrowed when he saw the figure, standing meekly there, foolish look on his face. That look of bovine stupidity on his face. Jesus.
“I’m sorry …”
“I don’t care if you’re sorry or not. Just go away. How the hell did you get in here, anyway?”’
“Well, I …”
“You have no right to be in here. It’s not a public monument. Aren’t there enough of those in this city without you having to come barging in here?”’
“I’m not …”
“Go on. Go away.”
The little man stood his ground, so Menzies, who weighed maybe twice as much as he did, lost his temper. He rose from his knees, walked over and grabbed him by the arm, then frogmarched him to the main door that led on to the street, taking the vast old key from the hook as he went. Unlocked it, pulled it open a foot or so, then ushered the man out.
“So nice to have met you,” he said sarcastically as the pathetic fellow walked blinking into the sunlight. “Do drop in again sometime. Like next century. Goodbye.”
And as he waved, Giulia, sitting on the steps of the church as she had been all that day, furtively took a photograph of Menzies waving in what seemed to be a friendly fashion. No reason to do so, but she was bored beyond endurance. Apart from spending her hours wondering whether the police was the right career for her, this was the first moment of excitement for hours. Then she scribbled down some notes, very precisely and carefully, leaving nothing out.
For the second night in a row, Argyll got back in the evening in the fond hope that this time he was going to get his quiet evening with Flavia. They didn’t seem to have had time to speak about anything at all for weeks and he was concerned that unless they got in a bit of practice, they might lose the knack entirely. He was a bit late himself this time, and walked in expecting her to be there already. She wasn’t. The apartment was occupied nonetheless.
“Oh, my God,” he said despairingly. “What the hell are you doing here?”’
A small, elegant woman in her mid-to-late fifties sat serenely on the sofa by the window. She had a lovely face, which seemed kind, and looked as though she was fond of laughing. The sort who knew how to grow old graciously, a rare talent. A bit reserved, perhaps, but good company. An honest face. The sort you instantly felt you could trust.
Which just went to show what a lot of nonsense it was to place any sort of reliance on the interpretation of physiognomy. He must remember to point that out to the students. A very important aspect of seventeenth-century artistic theory and one which, in his experience, was completely wrong. Mary Verney, sweet-faced criminal that he knew her to be, proved this pretty conclusively.
“Jonathan!” this woman said, rising from her chair and coming to meet him with a warm smile and outstretched hand. “How lovely to see you again.”
Argyll growled with annoyance. “I’m afraid I cannot say the same for you, Mrs Verney,” he replied stiffly. “How you have the nerve …”
“Oh, dear,” she said, brushing his protests aside. “I suppose I couldn’t really expect a great welcome. But that’s all water under the bridge.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Oh, Jonathan. What a fuss you make.”
“Mrs Verney, you are a liar, a thief and a murderer. You organized it so that there was nothing I could do about it. Fine. But you really don’t expect me to be pleased to see you, do you?”’
“Well,” she said doubtfully. “If you put it like that …”
“I do. Of course I do. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I take it you never mentioned that little matter to Flavia?”’
“Not exactly.”
“I wondered why she was so keen to see me,” Mrs Verney said with a slight frown. “A harmless little old lady like myself.”
Argyll snorted.
“No, really. I am. I confine myself to good works and repairs to the house.”
“Paid for by your ill-gotten gains.”
“Ill-gotten gains? Really, Jonathan, you do sound like a Victorian melodrama at times. But if you want to put it like that, indeed. By my ill-gotten gains. And it uses up all my time.”
Argyll snorted again. “So why are you here?”’
“Gin, please. And tonic, if you have it.”
“What?”’
“I thought you were asking me if I wanted a drink.”
“No.”
She smiled sweetly at him. I know this isn’t easy, dear, she seemed to be saying. Argyll, who in fact rather liked the woman, however much a monster of turpitude she really was, crumbled into abject politeness.
“With ice?”’
“Please.”
He assembled it and handed it over.
“Now,” she went on. “Let me make it clear that I am not here of my own volition. The last thing in my mind when I came to Rome was seeing either of you. I hardly expected a warm welcome from you, at least.” She held up her hand as he was about to interrupt. “I’m not blaming you in the slightest. But Flavia rang and invited me for a drink. In the circumstances, I could hardly refuse.”
“In what circumstances?”’
“She had taken the trouble to find out that I was here. Which means that I am a marked woman. And I don’t want to waste police time, so I thought it best to reassure her that I am here merely for a holiday. Then she can devote herself to catching real thieves.”
“You are a real thief.”
“Was, dear. Was. There is a big difference. I told you. I’m retired.”
“Somehow I find that difficult to believe …”
“Look,” she said patiently. “I am on holiday. Nothing sinister at all. I just hope that I can convince you eventually. If I can, I am sure your sanctimoniousness will evaporate and you’ll become a normal human being again.”
“Sanctimonious? Me? You turn up here out of the blue …”
“I know. You’re in shock …”
“Really?”’ asked Flavia brightly as she came in through the door with pasta and a couple of bottles of wine. “What about?”’
“With sheer pleasure at seeing me,” Mrs Verney said smoothly.
“Yes,” Flavia said. “Isn’t it nice? When I noticed she was here, I thought, how nice it would be …”
Mrs Verney smiled. “And here I am. I’m delighted to see you both again. I’m most anxious to hear all your news. How are you both? Married yet?”’
“In the autumn,” Flavia said. “That is the plan.”
“Oh, congratulations, my dears. Congratulations. I must send you a wedding present. I hope you will both be very happy.”
“Thank you. I was wondering whether you would like to have dinner with us. Unless you’re busy, that is
