“Or else?”
“Or else. That’s right. You note that I do you the credit of assuming that you wanted the money for the good of the order, and not to keep for yourself.”
“Of course not,” he said, almost angrily. “I have spent my entire adult life in it. I would never hurt it. Do you think I want money? For myself? I have never had any and wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway. But the order needed it. There is so much to do, and it costs a fortune. And I have been blocked time and again by that band of recalcitrant, obstructive old fools.”
“Fine. So if you care about your order that much, you had better tell me everything. Otherwise, I will make sure it is embroiled in so much distasteful scandal that they will rue the day they ever let you through their doors.”
She peered at him, to see how this went down. To her alarm, when she craned her head to look at his face, she saw a large tear running down his cheek.
“Come on,” she said softly. “Get it over with. You’ll feel better.”
She stood up and fetched some tissue, then handed them brusquely to him and waited while he dabbed his eyes, pretending not to see just as much as he pretended there was nothing wrong.
“I suppose I have to,” he began eventually. “God knows I have reproached myself enough; I can hardly pretend I have been anything but a stupid old man. About two years ago, soon after I became the head of the order, I received a letter from a company in Milan, making an extraordinary offer. That is, if we gave them the equivalent of a quarter of a million dollars, they would guarantee to double it within five years.”
Flavia nodded absent-mindedly, then paused, thought, and stared at him.
“You didn’t give them it, did you?” she asked incredulously.
Father Xavier nodded. “It seemed too good an opportunity. You see, with the money, I would be able to fund the new mission in Africa without disturbing anything else. Even Father Jean would not have been able to disapprove.”
“It didn’t occur to you that there might be something fishy with anyone who offers such a thing? Risky?”
He shook his head sadly. “They gave absolute guarantees. And said it was an offer they were only making to a few select investors.”
Flavia shook her head sadly. One born every minute.
“Last month I got a letter saying that, due to unforeseen circumstances, the progress of the investment had been slower than anticipated. I made enquiries, of course, and discovered that according to the contract I could not get back even the money that remained.”
“Who knew about this?”
“No one.”
“You didn’t put it before the council, ask their permission, check with any outside advisors?”
He shook his head. “No. And before you say it, I know now I was a complete fool.”
“In that case I won’t say it. So, you gave these people a quarter of a million dollars. Exactly how much have they lost?”
He sighed heavily. “Nearly all. They are reluctant to tell me.”
“I bet they are.”
“And about then I got a letter from Signor Burckhardt, offering to buy the icon. For nearly enough to make good the loss.”
“Good Lord! That’s an absurd amount. Why was he prepared to pay that much?”
“He said he wanted to make sure we would accept, and didn’t want to waste time in foolish negotiations. Of course, he didn’t bank on Father Jean.”
Flavia thought. What dealer would offer nearly a quarter of a million when there was a reasonable chance it could be had for a fraction of that amount?
Answer, obviously, one who was working to commission. Five per cent of a quarter of a million is more than five per cent of fifty thousand. Burckhardt must have had a client lined up.
“Go on.”
“So we had a meeting to discuss the possibility of selling some of our possessions, and Jean made sure it was turned down flat.”
He paused to see whether this was being heard sympathetically. “I was desperate, you see. I had to get hold of some money.”
“So you decided to sell the thing anyway.”
“Yes. I believe it was within my competence as head of the order. I arranged for him to come to the church to pick it up. He was going to bring the money, take the icon and go. And then, I suppose, I would have reported a burglary.”
“Just a second. What do you mean, he was going to bring the money with him? In cash?”
“I said I wanted the money. In cash. I’d had enough of being made a fool of.”
It got worse and worse. Flavia by now could barely believe what she was hearing. She had heard of some stupid operations in her time, but this set new standards.
“And then?” she asked. “What went wrong?”
“I don’t know. I went to the church just after six, unlocked the door and took the Virgin off the wall, and put it in a bag. Then I waited. And someone hit me. That’s almost the last I remember.”
“And that was when someone took the Virgin?”
“No,” he said definitely.
“How do you know?”
“Because she was still there. I know.”
“How? You were unconscious.”
“She talked to me.”
“What?”
“I was dying, I know I was. And she saved me through her grace. She came to me and said, “Don’t struggle, don’t worry, it’ll be all right. I’ll make sure.” Such a soft and gentle voice; full of compassion and care. Immediately I felt suffused with a warm glow of peace.”
The old Catholic in Flavia fought a momentary battle with the equally venerable old cynic, and decided to call it a draw. It had made Xavier cooperative; that in itself was truly something of a miracle. That didn’t mean she was prepared to accept that the icon wasn’t stolen by the man who hit him.
“It was a miracle,” Xavier went on. “My skin goes cold just to think of it. I have acted badly, and deserve little favour, yet I am blessed with her forgiveness. Tell me, what are you going to do with me?”
She shook her head. “I have no idea at all. Fortunately, other people decide that. I merely find out what happened. But you are in big trouble, believe me.”
Flavia walked from the Gemelli to the office; a long walk, right across the centre of town, taking her across the river and through the medieval quarters. By all reasonable standards it was absurd and a waste of time that could be much better spent. Stopping for twenty minutes at a quiet, back-street bar for a coffee and a glass of water was even more foolish. But she reckoned she needed time to think things through.
And besides, she thought she needed a little celebration. Not because of any achievement on her part, certainly. She realized she had come perilously close to having another murder on her hands. But she knew that Charanis had gone into the hospital, talked to Father Xavier and left. It established that Charanis was not only still in Rome, but also, it seemed, did not have the picture. He must have thought Burckhardt had it; then killed him when he refused—or couldn’t—say where it was. And he’s still trying. What makes him think there is any chance of getting hold of it now?
And there was the obvious point that if he didn’t have it, who the hell did? That perhaps was the central problem, and, consequently, one that had to be put aside and forgotten about for a while. Mary Verney was the prime suspect, of course, except for the fact that she was still here.
Flavia sipped her drink, and watched the office workers and occasional tourist who had been lured down the street thinking they were on the way to somewhere, stopping frequently and looking with puzzlement at their maps, turning them upside down and then doing an about turn before heading back the way they came. Know how you feel, she thought as she paid her bill and stood up.
One final detail awaited her on her desk which clinched it. A note from Fostiropoulos, admirably swift. The director of the Athens museum negotiating for Charanis’s pictures was concerned about one picture in particular. A Tintoretto with very dubious origins. Naturally the man hadn’t mentioned it to anyone before because he didn’t want to offend a vastly rich potential donor unfairly, but he was keen to know where it came from.