“He didn’t look at anything in particular?”
He shook his head. “I wasn’t paying attention. I think he was down at the far end of the church, by the main door, but I’m not sure.”
“Did he seem in a good mood?”
Menzies thought. “It’s difficult to say with someone you don’t know. But, yes, he seemed OK. Seemed quite happy.”
“Had you examined the picture? The icon. You were going to clean it.”
“I’d looked it over.”
“And?”
“And decided it would take longer to clean than it probably merited. As far as I could see it was very old, hadn’t been looked after well and was in terrible condition. It had had woodworm at some stage and had been treated, by immersion. A long time ago. The treatment had put a thick brown coating over the painting so you could barely see it. It would have been phenomenally difficult to get that off without destroying the painting entirely. Some of it had gone anyway. For all my reputation, I don’t believe in doing things unnecessarily or unless I’m sure I can do it safely. In this case I was simply going to clean the surface, treat it again for rot and reinforce it. It would have been something of a risk just taking it out of the frame.”
“Which someone has now done.”
“Hmm? Oh no. I mean the inner frame. There were two. The outer one of gold and silver laid on wood, and an inner supporting frame. The second one was taken as well.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“Not at all. The outer frame came off easily. The inner one was fixed much more securely. It would have been difficult to remove it, and much safer not to.”
“I see. Now, how did Burckhardt get in? Was the main door open?”
“No. It never is. He must have come in through the usual entrance.”
“Which means ringing the bell and someone letting him in?”
“I suppose. Unless he arrived with someone who has a key. Everyone in the place has a key.”
“No one we’ve talked to let him in or heard him ring.”
Menzies shrugged. “Must have pole-vaulted over the wall, then.”
“Thank you, Mr Menzies.” She stood up and showed him to the door before he could begin to move the conversation back to newspapers and journalists. “I may very well need to talk to you again in the next few days. I’ll come and see you at the monastery if need be.”
Surprisingly, he walked out quite meekly, and left her alone. She sighed heavily, shook her head, then glanced at her watch. Her heart sank. Menzies had distracted her from her real business. It was ten to six. Time for Mrs Verney. She was not looking forward to it.
Flavia had persuaded Paolo to pick Mary Verney up from her hotel and bring her in, then had her kept in a small room in the, basement for a couple of hours to meditate on her sins, whatever they were. She did not think Mrs Verney had stolen the picture. She didn’t know what Mrs Verney had done. She merely knew that she had done something, and hoped that a spot of peace and quiet in a dank and airless room would persuade her to explain. Somehow, though, she doubted it.
For all that she was on the verge of panic, Mrs Verney seemed perfectly unconcerned on the surface. She did not relish the idea of jail; she resented the fact that pressure from others had landed her in this position and, above all, she was terrified that unless she delivered the goods, her granddaughter would suffer. And at the moment, she was completely at a loss. The picture had gone, and all she had to show for it was a hefty stash of money found in a left-luggage box. While Flavia wanted the interview to bring some enlightenment, Mrs Verney awaited the conversation with very similar hopes.
Like a good prisoner, though, she sat quietly as Flavia came in and waited for her to begin the questioning.
“Now then, I have to tell you that you are in serious trouble.”
“Really? Why is that?”
“Let me summarize. Yesterday morning, a painting was stolen from the monastery of San Giovanni on the Aventino. Do you know the building?”
A smile of the sort that indicated that she thought setting such an easy trap was, well, a bit insulting, really.
“Of course I do. Which painting was stolen? The Caravaggio, or the little icon in the corner? I saw them for the first time some twenty years ago. I lived in Rome briefly and was a very assiduous tourist.”
“The icon.”
“Goodness,” she said, then offered no more.
“Do you know anything about it?”
“Should I?”
“I’m asking you.”
“So you are.”
“Are early-morning walks a speciality?”
Mrs Verney gave a brief twitch of a smile as she spotted the clue she’d been waiting for. She now had a measure of how much the police had found out.
“When I can’t sleep, they are. To be up at six o’clock is a privilege of age. Especially in Rome. And, since that is what you seem to be getting at, yes, I was walking on the Aventino. Do you want the whole story?”
“What do you think?”
“As I say, I went for an early-morning walk. And—just by chance—found myself walking past the monastery.”
“Oh, come now,” Flavia said. “You expect me to believe that?”
“It’s true,” she said with a fine mixture of surprise and indignation at being doubted. “Anyway, I saw a man come down the steps from the church. The door was open, so I thought that maybe they had early-morning services, or something like that.”
“And you felt a burst of piety come over you?”
“More like nostalgia, I think. As I say, I’d visited the place many years ago, when I was young and fancy-free. And what could be more natural than to revisit it?”
“What indeed?”
“So I did. And found this poor man lying on the ground, with blood streaming out of his head. Now, I’m a good citizen, most of the time. I did what I could for the poor soul, then went straight away to phone the police for assistance. How is he, by the way?”
“He’ll recover, we think.”
“There you are then. And rather than being thanked, here I am being interrogated as some sort of suspect. I must say, I am not happy about it.”
“Dear me. I suppose you can explain why you were so modest about receiving thanks for your considerate act?”
“Do I need to? Heaven only knows what Jonathan has told you about me. But naturally I thought you would be suspicious if I was found there, however innocently, at such an early hour. In the circumstances. So I thought it best not to complicate the issue.”
“I see. Now, what time was this?”
She grew vague. “I couldn’t really say. After six, before seven. Maybe.”
“We have witnesses that it was about six-fortyfive.”
“Must have been, then.”
“And the phone call was logged at seven-forty. That’s a long time to find a phone.”
She shook her head evenly. “Not really. There aren’t any bars open, and there aren’t many public phones in Rome. I went as fast as I could.”
“I see. Now, this man, did you recognize him?”
“No. Why should I have done? Who is he?”
“Was. A man called Peter Burckhardt. A dealer.”
“Was?”
“He’s dead. Someone shot him.”
For the first time the unconcerned mask slipped. She hadn’t known that, and doesn’t like it, Flavia thought. How very interesting. What is she up to?
“Dear me.”
“Dear me, indeed. We are now investigating a murder, an assault and a theft. And you are right in the middle of the investigation.”
“You think I had something to do with this? When was the poor man killed?”
“We think yesterday. About midday, give or take an hour. I suppose you can tell me where you were?”
“Absolutely. I was in the Barberini, then I had lunch at my hotel, and then I went shopping. I can give you all the receipts, which I imagine have time stamps on them. They usually do, nowadays.”