It took Flavia only twenty minutes to find out. The picture had vanished twenty-six years ago from a castle in Austria. Just like that, no warning, no clues and never seen again. Exactly the style of Mary Verney when she was on top form. One of the ones they hadn’t found out about last year. Got her.
Half an hour later, she had Mary Verney arrested. No politeness, no personal touch this time. Just three large policemen with a car. She told them to bundle her in the back and bring her to a cell in the basement. Don’t talk, don’t say a word. No explanations. Make it seem as grim and intimidating as possible. Frighten the life out of her.
They did a good job of it. For all her life of crime, Mary Verney had never been in trouble with the police before. Even traffic wardens made her nervous, and the experience of the Italian police at their least charming rattled her considerably, as did the fact that she was left to stew on her own for three hours before Flavia decided the time had come for a conversation. When she walked in with a file of notes as a prop, the woman seemed properly chastened. Flavia adopted a world-weary, businesslike air. Another one to put in jail. Oh, dear.
“Now, then,” she began after she’d sat there for several minutes reading her notes and making marks in the margins with a pencil, “I should tell you that we have enough for the magistrate to charge you on several counts. Firstly with leaving the scene of a crime. Secondly, conspiracy to commit theft, and thirdly—and most importantly—conspiracy to commit murder.”
“Murder?” Mary Verney said, her head jerking up in astonishment. “What murder?”
“Peter Burckhardt.”
“That’s absurd.”
“I don’t think so. We will be arguing, with evidence, that you informed one Mikis Charanis of Burckhardt’s presence in the church of San Giovanni on the morning that the icon was stolen and Father Xavier was attacked.”
“I’d never even heard of this Charanis before.”
“We will prove that twenty-six years ago you stole a Tintoretto for his father.”
“Nonsense.”
“Far from being retired, as you say, you came to Rome specifically to steal that icon, either for the father or the son. I don’t care which one. Personally, I think you should have taken your own advice. You’ve lost your touch. Greed, Mrs Verney. I’m surprised at you. I would have thought you had enough sense to know when to stop. Now you’ve blown everything.”
There was a long pause, as Mary Verney considered how right Flavia was. She always knew in her bones this was going to be a disaster, so the fact that she was sitting here, quite probably facing a hefty jail sentence, should come as no surprise. And all because of that man, whom she had liked and trusted, and who didn’t even have the courage to face her himself.
Was there any way out? If she kept quiet, she would undoubtedly go to jail. What’s more it was unlikely Charanis would believe she would keep quiet, and so would carry out his threat. And if she told the truth? Surely the same result.
“How long are you going to take over this?” Flavia asked.
“I was wondering whether you might want to come to some accommodation.”
“No. I don’t need to. So talk to me.”
“The question is whether you can help me.”
“The question is whether I am prepared to.”
This seemed to produce a stalemate, and Flavia was not in the mood for playing games today. There had been more than enough of those already. “You seem to be wanting a deal. You give me something, I give you something. I’m not interested. I want the truth, full, whole and unabridged. I want a way of checking it. And I’m not going to offer you anything in advance at all. No promises, no deals and no assurances. Take it or leave it. I don’t know why you’re so desperate to steal this picture, and I don’t care. That’s your business. So, either get on with it, or forget it.”
A third long pause, then Mary shook her head. “I know nothing about any icon or murder. I was walking on the Aventino that morning merely by coincidence. I haven’t stolen anything or injured anyone. I am a little old tourist. That is all I have to say.”
And with a calm look very much at odds with what she felt, Mary folded her hands on her lap and gazed placidly at the policewoman sitting opposite to her.
Flavia glared at her angrily. “I don’t believe a word of it. You’re in this up to your neck.”
She shook her head. “How many times do I have to tell you? I do not have the icon.”
This time Flavia lost her temper. “I know you don’t. Menzies does,” she said angrily. “He took the thing home to clean it. And won’t let us have it back until tomorrow when he’s finished. He might have told us, but he didn’t, and it’s not the point in any case. The point is that you came here to steal it and it went wrong. One man died and another was put in hospital. Now, tell me, what happened?”
A third shake of her head, although this time a slight glint in the eyes showed that she knew she’d won. She had kept her nerve; Flavia had gone too far. “I have nothing to say on this matter at all. Charge me or let me go.”
Flavia slammed the file shut and strode out of the cell, then leant heavily against the cool of the concrete wall.
“Well?” the man on duty asked. “What am I to do with her?”
“Keep her for another few hours, then let her go.” She marched back to her office to consider what she had done. Then she took a taxi to the monastery to see Dan Menzies.
Argyll’s quest for an easy solution to his own Greek problem met an early reverse as he climbed the stairs to Father Charles’s grim little room. He met Father Paul coming down, as calm and serene as ever.
“I’m afraid I do not feel that would be a good idea,” he said after Argyll had explained. “He is not well at the moment.”
“I wouldn’t detain him long. But he could save me an awful lot of time. He’s given me a puzzle and as far as I can see he already knows what the answer is.”
Father Paul shook his head. “You can try, of course. But I’m afraid the illness has overcome him again. It is difficult to get much sense out of him, and you would not be able to rely on anything you did hear. His dementia, when it comes, is overpowering.”
“How long does it last?”
“It depends. Sometimes a few hours, sometimes days.”
“I can’t wait days.”
Father Paul looked helpless. “I’m afraid there is nothing I can say to assist you. By all means go and see him; even if he doesn’t understand I think that human company is a solace to him. I try to visit him myself whenever possible. He found me and brought me into the order, so I owe him a great deal and it is a pleasure. But I think you will get little from it.”
“I’ll try anyway. He doesn’t get, ah, aggressive, does he?”
“Oh no, not at all. Not physically.”
“He shouts? Just so I’m ready for it, you understand.”
“He can be very frightening. He says terrible things. And sometimes …”
“Sometimes what?”
“He speaks in tongues.”
Father Paul was obviously struck by this last manifestation of the old man’s madness; Argyll found it the least alarming of all prospects.
As long as he gives a running translation, he thought to himself as he climbed the last few stairs after telling Father Paul he’d try anyway, he can do a mime act for all I care.
Still, dealing with madness was a slightly unnerving prospect; he had seen far too many gothic horror movies for him not to have a sense of trepidation as he knocked on the door and waited for a reply. There was none, so, after waiting a few minutes with his ear to the door, he quietly opened it, and peered in.