Death and Restoration by Iain Pears

noticed.”
    “I see,” said Flavia. “And was it?”’
    “There was a surprising amount of disquiet. It’s still very much a neighbourhood around here, with people who’ve been in the quarter for generations, and they rather regarded that Madonna as their patroness and protector. They never paid any attention to it while the church was open, of course, but they were upset when it was closed. Young girls used to come before they got married, and even the most hardened of boys found themselves in front of her before examinations.”
    “I see. Now, you get up when?”’
    “At half past five. Normally there is a service, then an hour of meditation before breakfast. Usually, that’s when the church is opened. But because of Mr Menzies making such a mess in there, we’ve been using the library recently.”
    “So the church wasn’t opened until nine.”
    “That’s right. Either Signora Graziani, or Mr Menzies, opens it up.”
    “Tell us about the signora.”
    Father Paul shrugged. “I know little about her. You’d have to ask Father Jean, I think. She works on a food stall on market days. When she does she comes early to clean. Every day, rain or shine; it’s some sort of vow, I believe. She is pious in a way which is rare nowadays. Probably always rare, in fact.”
    Like Father Paul, Father Jean provided a brief biographical sketch, and told them that he was in effect the librarian of the community, and had stopped acting as deputy superior when Father Charles had stepped down three years previously.
    “I would have retired, as that is theoretically now possible,” he said with a faint smile. “But alas, permission was denied me.”
    “How old are you?”’
    “Seventy-four.”
    “Too young, eh?”’
    “No, it’s because there are so few of us left. The average age of the order is about sixty now. There are no vocations any more. When I was young, there was competition to get in; the order offered useful work and an unparalleled education. Now the state provides the education, and no one believes in the work. So they need me.”
    “Father Paul …”
    “Is, as you may have noticed, from Africa. And a very fine young man. The Third World is the only place we get vocations now. Unless we do something, I wouldn’t be at all surprised … still, this is not what you want to ask me about.”
    “I suppose not. Tell me about Father Xavier. Is he popular? Well-liked?”’
    Father Jean hesitated. “I’m not so sure what you’re asking.”
    “Does he have enemies?”’
    “You mean …?”’ The old man looked pale with horror as it dawned on him what Flavia was asking. “Surely, he was trying to prevent a burglary. This was nothing to do with him personally.”
    “We do have to cover all options. Of course, it was almost certainly a burglary. But please answer the question anyway.”
    “This is terribly distressing, in the circumstances.”
    “Tell me anyway.”
    Father Jean nodded and sighed heavily. “I suppose I must. As far as I know he has no family; none close, anyway. And virtually no friends, inside or outside the order.”
    “Enemies?”’
    “He is not a popular leader, and has been controversial ever since he took over, although it would have been difficult for anyone to fill the shoes of Father Charles.”
    “In what way, controversial?”’
    “We are at a difficult stage,” he began eventually, after a long search for the best way to phrase it. “And Father Xavier was the man forced to confront that. I am convinced he was on entirely the wrong track, but I suppose I must give him credit for trying. Many others would merely have swept all our problems under the carpet, and left them until they became too difficult to solve.”
    “What precisely?”’
    “We have to decide what we are for, if you see what I mean. It is no longer enough to pray, and other people, it seems, can do good works better than us. So what are we doing? We have some money and we have good people. Are we