“You don’t keep records?”
“Oh, no. On the rare occasions someone comes here, we just give them a key to the archive room.”
“Is there a catalogue of the documents?”
Father Jean smiled. “After a fashion, but it’s not very satisfactory. In fact, it’s unusable.”
“Still useful.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because it was all in the head of Father Charles, who knew the papers backwards and forwards.”
“And he’s dead, I suppose.”
“Oh, no. Full of life, but he is over eighty and his mind is not what it was.”
“You mean he’s senile?”
“I’m afraid so. He has his lucid moments, but they are becoming more and more rare.”
“And he never made a catalogue?”
“No. We planned to get it all down, and would have done so except that Father Charles had a stroke and was put out of commission. If we ever get a catalogue, we’ll be starting from scratch. And I’m afraid it is not a very high priority.”
“That makes life more difficult. Is there any chance of seeing him anyway? Just in case?”
“Probably. But I can’t take you to him myself. We have our latest crisis to deal with.”
“What’s that?”
Father Jean shook his head. “We seem to have a popular religious revival on our hands.”
“Isn’t that good?”
“Do you know, I’m not sure. I’m afraid the order spends so time running hospitals and schools that we are no longer sure what to do with religious feeling. Especially when there are signs that it is superstitious and idolatrous.”
“I’m not with you.”
“That icon. You heard, no doubt, that it was a sort of local protector. Guarding the quarter against plague and bombs?”
Argyll nodded.
“All that had died out, of course. Except for a few old people like Signora Graziani, it was hardly remembered. So I thought, anyway. For some reason the theft has brought it all to the surface again. They’re like that, the Romans. However much you may think they have become brash and materialistic, scratch the surface …”
“So what’s going on?”
“Everything. Late-night vigils asking the icon to return. Genuine fear, it seems, that the quarter is exposed to danger by its absence. Confessions tagged to the locked door hoping that a genuine show of contrition will make it relent, and come back …”
“But it was stolen.”
Father Jean shook his head. “It seems not. It seems that in the minds of a surprising number of people here, it got up and walked out on its own to indicate Our Lady’s displeasure. And will not return until she is satisfied everybody is in a properly repentant frame of mind. Obviously, I’ve read about phenomena like this in history books, but I never thought that I’d witness such a thing. It’s genuine, you know; absolutely genuine. The trouble is, that the order is being blamed.”
“What for?”
“For cutting Our Lady off from her people. Closing the doors. It’s all General Bottando’s fault, in fact, as he was the one who told us to lock the doors.”
“That’s his job.”
“Yes. And I’m coming to believe that it should have been our job to ignore him. So you see, we have to discuss this, and work out what to do.”
“Of course. Perhaps if you could tell me where this Father Charles is? If there’s any chance of getting something out of him …”
“Oh, that’s easy enough. He’s here. We look after our own, you know.”
Father Jean looked at his old watch, and grunted. “I can take you to him quickly. if he’s alert, I’ll leave you. Then you’ll have to fend for yourself.”
Very quickly, he headed off down corridors, up stairs, mounting higher and higher in the building until the decorations gave way and was replaced by older, blistered and peeling paint. The windows got smaller and smaller, and the ever more narrow doors became looser on their hinges.
“Not lavish, I’m afraid,” Father Jean observed. “But he refused to move.”
“He wants to live here?”
“He has done for sixty years and refused to budge even when he was the superior. We wanted to give him a lighter room on the ground floor. It would have made it easier for him to get around, and the doctors thought that more cheerful surroundings might help his mind. But he wouldn’t have it. He never did like change.”
He knocked on the door, waited for a moment then pushed it open.
“Charles?” he said softly into the gloom. “Are you awake?”
“I am,” an old voice said. “I am awake.”
“I have a visitor for you. He wants to ask about the archives.”
There was a long pause and a creaking of a chair from the other side of the darkened room. Argyll noticed the strong, musty smell of underventilation and extreme old age in the air, and braced himself for a difficult and unrewarding encounter.
“Show him in, then.”
“Are you able to talk to him?”
“What have I just been doing?”
“You’re in luck,” Father Jean whispered. “He’ll probably lapse after a while, but you might get something out of him.”
“Don’t whisper, Jean,” came the voice, cross now. “Send me this visitor, and get him to open the shutters so I can see what I have to deal with. And leave me in peace.”
Father Jean gave an affectionate smile and padded softly out of the room, leaving Argyll, oddly nervous, alone. He stumbled across the room to reach the wall and opened both windows and shutters. The morning sunlight streamed in with such intensity it was almost like being hit.
The light revealed a sparse, austere room, with a bed, two chairs, a desk and a shelf of books. On the wall was a crucifix, and from the ceiling hung a light with a single, unshaded light bulb. In one of the chairs sat Father Charles, looking at him calmly and with the infinite patience of age. Argyll stood still while the inspection was on, not daring to sit down until invited.
He was surprised by what he saw. He had half expected an wizened little man, as pitiful as old age can be, doddering and pathetic. Instead, the sight presented to him could hardly have been more different. Father Charles was still big, and must have been enormous when young. Barrel-chested, powerful and tall, even in ill-health, he dominated the room and made the chair he was sitting on seem far too small. More important still was his expression, which flickered with interest as it studied Argyll’s face with care, taking all the time he wanted, conscious that nothing would happen until he was ready to allow the interview to proceed.
After a while, and having established through his silence who was in control, Father Charles nodded to himself.
“And you are …?”
Argyll introduced himself, speaking loudly and clearly.
“Sit down, Signor Argyll. And there is no need to talk like that. I am neither deaf nor stupid.”
Argyll looked embarrassed.
“And don’t look embarrassed, either. I am, as Father Jean has no doubt told you, not what I was. But much of the time I am perfectly compos mentis. If I feel myself slipping I will tell you, and bring the conversation to an end. I am too proud, I’m afraid, to relish people seeing me in the state such deterioration brings. You would not enjoy it either.”
“By all means,” Argyll said.
“So, young man, tell me what you want.”
Argyll began to explain.
“Ah, yes, Our Lady from the East. Would you mind telling me why you are interested?”
Argyll explained about the theft. As he talked, the old man shook his head with interest.
“No,” he said. “It cannot be.”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“Then you are wrong. She cannot—will not—leave this house. It is impossible, unless”—here he smiled to himself—“unless world politics has changed markedly since I read the newspaper. And that was only yesterday, you know.”