“Ah. Yes. Good morning. My name is Argyll.”
The man nodded politely in acknowledgement, but seemed to think that more was necessary. He didn’t bother to ask anything.
“I’ve come to see Mr Menzies.”
It was only for the briefest fraction of a second, but Argyll thought he saw a tiny little twitch in the man’s face, and believed that it indicated less than wholehearted warmth for Mr Menzies. But maybe not; he spoke perfectly graciously in a rich and elegant voice.
“I’m afraid Mr Menzies has not yet arrived. If you would like some coffee while you wait …?”
“That’s kind. But I’m awash with the stuff this morning. Could I go into the chapel and see what he’s up to?”
“With pleasure, but I doubt you’ll see much. Mr Menzies has cordoned off most of the transept as his work space and barred the entry. But you’re welcome to see the rest of the church. It is, I’m told, very lovely.”
“You don’t think so?”
“You may have noticed that I come from a very different tradition, sir. It means less to me.”
“Ah.”
“I think that the door will be open now. We have to lock it up these days, you see.”
“Oh? For any reason?” Such as the sudden arrival of a vastly valuable, but small treasure waiting to be stolen? he thought hopefully.
“There was a burglary a year or so ago, and the police recommended that if we didn’t want to lose everything, we might think of locking the doors. There is, in truth, little that is stealable, I gather. But they say that if it can be moved, it will be. So they told us to lock it.”
“They do that.”
“We still don’t like it, I must say. There is a group amongst us who believe there is something strange in an order which takes vows of poverty protecting its possessions from the poor and needy. Especially as they are not valuable.”
Argyll nodded. “A lot of church history is against you, there.”
Father Paul nodded. “I am learning this.”
“Where do you have your services at the moment? If Menzies has commandeered your chapel?”
“Oh, we make do. In the refectory, and sometimes in the library. Which, it must be said, is very much more comfortable. The chapel itself tends to be a little damp, especially in the winter months. And as many of our brothers are not in the prime of youth …”
“I see. Agonies at evensong, eh?”
“I beg your pardon?” He seemed puzzled by the remark.
“Nothing.”
“Please wait in the chapel if you wish. And do tell me what he’s doing in there, will you? He discourages us from viewing his work.”
Then Argyll was left alone in the little courtyard and, to pass the time, went into the church to examine those bits which had not been boarded off by Dan Menzies. It was, in truth, very charming, or would have been. At a rough guess, Argyll reckoned it was probably fifteenth century in origin, and there was just enough clear space to see the elegant simplicity of the old church, which was fairly small but still had the dignity and harmony of its century. But it had been modernized, got at in the seventeenth century. Again, the architect had restrained himself. There was lots of gold leaf, angels and cherubs on the ceiling, and curls and quiffs stuck on all over the place, but somehow the effect was in keeping with the original structure. It was something of a relief. Argyll was a great defender of the baroque, normally, but sometimes they did go over the top and give even the loveliest buildings a distinct air of the Roman nouveaux riches.
So he turned his attention to the paintings, principally the Caravaggio. Not that there was much to see, as only the frame was left hanging on the wall, but it was clear even from that that it didn’t fit. Much too big. Just the ticket for a huge place like San Andrea delle Valle, or San Agnese, but here it would seem so vast it would look as though it was wedged in, turning the airy church merely into supporting walls for the painter’s gloomy notions of religion. The wrong mood, and as out of place as a mourner at a wedding party. And clearly vast. Twelve foot by eight, more or less. Stealing it would be a bit of a task. Although, for his part, he reckoned the church would be greatly improved if someone did remove it. In fact, he decided as he walked round, his feet echoing quietly on the stone flagging, the only painting which should be there was that little Madonna. He stopped and peered at the tiny painting in a minuscule chapel halfway down the aisle. It was very dirty, and he could scarcely make it out, but it was, he thought, a virgin and child. Very old, and an icon. Surrounded by a gold frame that came all the way down to the head, then curved simply round the outline of the shoulders and down to the infant resting airily in her arms. In front of it was a range of candle holders for the devout. There were no candles lit; no prayers or supplications that day. Argyll, who hated anyone to feel neglected and lonely, fished out a coin and dropped it in the box, then took a candle and lit it with his lighter, pressing it into the holder right in the painting’s line of sight. There you are, love, he thought.
“Thank you, sir,” said a soft woman’s voice, so gentle and so unexpected that Argyll, prone as he was to momentary bursts of superstition, almost jumped into the air.
“I’m sorry; I surprised you,” it continued, and Argyll turned round to see a middle-aged woman with a broom in one hand and an old plastic bucket in the other.
“No, no. That’s all right,” he said. “I didn’t hear you. Who are you?”
“I clean the church,” she said. “They allow me to. We always have.”
“We?”
“My family.”
“Oh.”
There was a brief pause, as Argyll examined this woman, and she, with great but benign curiosity, studied him. He saw a short, stocky figure, very Roman in appearance, with that broad, both-feet-on-the-ground air which is characteristic of the city’s inhabitants. A kind face, with hands rough from years of being dipped into buckets of cold water, and scrubbing floors on hands and knees. An old floral house dress, and a cheap coat to keep off the dirt. She also wore a bizarre pair of pink velvet slippers with pom-poms on the end, which no doubt accounted for her being able to walk up behind him so silently.
“It’s My Lady,” she said, nodding a greeting at the icon and making a half curtsey as she spoke. Odd, Argyll thought. Not Our Lady. Was that common among Romans? He’d never noticed before. “She has great powers.”
“Oh, yes?”
“She protects those who are kind to her, and chastises the wicked. In the war, the people who lived round here gathered in the church when the troops were approaching and prayed for her help. Not a single bomb fell on this part of town.”
“That was fortunate.”
“It had nothing to do with fortune.”
“Of course not,” Argyll said hurriedly. “She seems a little, um, neglected, now.”
The woman clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth in disapproval and sadness. “We live in a wicked age. Even priests turn from her, so how can anyone else know better?”
Argyll was beginning to feel uncomfortable. These sorts of conversations always had this effect on him, a slight feeling of claustrophobia and a desperate desire to be somewhere else. He didn’t want to encourage her to talk on, but didn’t want to be rude either, so he hopped up and down and said, “Ah, indeed,” in a noncommittal way.
“They won’t let people in any more; it’s so sad and so foolish. The church used to be open for supplicants, who needed to come and ask her a favour. Or who wanted to thank her.”