doing God’s work with either?”’
“Some of you wanted to give it away?”’
“Oh, no. Hardly that.” Father Jean permitted himself a faint, ironic smile. “It was more a question of how best to use what we had. And for some of us, how to get more. For the best possible reasons, of course.”
“Of course.”
“The church as a whole is in a certain amount of turmoil; you may have noticed. And being the church, it goes on for a long time. We think in centuries, so a convulsion lasting fifty years is a mere nothing. But that essentially is the problem. Do we guard the old ways or alter completely our approach? Do we try to change the world, or allow the world to change us? That is the basic problem facing all traditional religions, it seems.”
Flavia nodded. “I still don’t see …”
“We have no new vocations,” Father Jean continued. “Except from the Third World, as I said. Thirty priests under the age of thirty-five, and all but five come from Africa or South America. Yet all our officers are Italian or French—mainly French—most are over sixty, our headquarters are in Rome and most of our expenditure is in Europe. A significant number want to recognize the changes; an equally significant number want to keep things as they are. That, if you like, is the problem in a nutshell. The debate has caused much bitterness in our ranks.”
“What were Father Xavier’s proposals?”’
“They don’t have much relevance …”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Father Xavier, and those who supported him, wanted to rebuild us into an aid and teaching order. Raise money, and pour it all into development and missionary projects in Africa. And to raise money, he wanted to sell off assets. I was totally opposed to the scheme but was not certain that my views would prevail.”
“I see. And which assets are we talking about here? Wouldn’t be the Caravaggio, would it?”’
“Unfortunately, it would. Although that was only a start. We had a meeting to discuss the principle a few days ago. Fortunately the proposal was defeated.”
“Meaning what?”’
“Meaning that we decided as a body to refuse permission for anything to be sold at all.”
“Are you short of money?”’
“I don’t know. We are not a rich order, but two years ago, when I was in a position to know such things, we were not desperately poor.”
“Was this proposal caused by any offers? Had someone said they wanted to buy the Caravaggio?”’
“Not that I am aware of, no.”
There was a pause, as Father Jean realized that perhaps he had allowed the outside world too much of an insight into private business.
“So who runs things now?”’
“Until such time as the situation becomes clear—whether Xavier will be returning to his post or not—then we are in limbo. And, as far as I understand it, the most senior available member takes charge.”
“You?”’
He nodded. “It is a burden I do not wish to fall on my aged shoulders. But I have given my life to this order and now, in the time of its crisis, is not the moment to shirk my responsibilities.”
Flavia nodded. He wouldn’t have much trouble becoming a politician, she thought. He already speaks like one. And she thought she saw the bright glint of opportunity in his eye. “OK. Let’s leave that. What were your movements last night and this morning?”’
Father Jean said he had had an unexceptional evening. He had worked in the library until six, attended the evening service, had dinner, read for an hour, gone to chapel again then gone to bed at ten.
“In the morning I got up, attended chapel, spent an hour in prayer, ate and began work at seven. I stayed in the library until Father Paul came to say that there had been a terrible tragedy.”
“You sleep well?”’
He shrugged. “Well enough, I think. I need little sleep; we old men don’t, you know. I normally wake at about three and read.”
“And you did that last night?”’
“Yes.”
“What were you
“Some of you wanted to give it away?”’
“Oh, no. Hardly that.” Father Jean permitted himself a faint, ironic smile. “It was more a question of how best to use what we had. And for some of us, how to get more. For the best possible reasons, of course.”
“Of course.”
“The church as a whole is in a certain amount of turmoil; you may have noticed. And being the church, it goes on for a long time. We think in centuries, so a convulsion lasting fifty years is a mere nothing. But that essentially is the problem. Do we guard the old ways or alter completely our approach? Do we try to change the world, or allow the world to change us? That is the basic problem facing all traditional religions, it seems.”
Flavia nodded. “I still don’t see …”
“We have no new vocations,” Father Jean continued. “Except from the Third World, as I said. Thirty priests under the age of thirty-five, and all but five come from Africa or South America. Yet all our officers are Italian or French—mainly French—most are over sixty, our headquarters are in Rome and most of our expenditure is in Europe. A significant number want to recognize the changes; an equally significant number want to keep things as they are. That, if you like, is the problem in a nutshell. The debate has caused much bitterness in our ranks.”
“What were Father Xavier’s proposals?”’
“They don’t have much relevance …”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Father Xavier, and those who supported him, wanted to rebuild us into an aid and teaching order. Raise money, and pour it all into development and missionary projects in Africa. And to raise money, he wanted to sell off assets. I was totally opposed to the scheme but was not certain that my views would prevail.”
“I see. And which assets are we talking about here? Wouldn’t be the Caravaggio, would it?”’
“Unfortunately, it would. Although that was only a start. We had a meeting to discuss the principle a few days ago. Fortunately the proposal was defeated.”
“Meaning what?”’
“Meaning that we decided as a body to refuse permission for anything to be sold at all.”
“Are you short of money?”’
“I don’t know. We are not a rich order, but two years ago, when I was in a position to know such things, we were not desperately poor.”
“Was this proposal caused by any offers? Had someone said they wanted to buy the Caravaggio?”’
“Not that I am aware of, no.”
There was a pause, as Father Jean realized that perhaps he had allowed the outside world too much of an insight into private business.
“So who runs things now?”’
“Until such time as the situation becomes clear—whether Xavier will be returning to his post or not—then we are in limbo. And, as far as I understand it, the most senior available member takes charge.”
“You?”’
He nodded. “It is a burden I do not wish to fall on my aged shoulders. But I have given my life to this order and now, in the time of its crisis, is not the moment to shirk my responsibilities.”
Flavia nodded. He wouldn’t have much trouble becoming a politician, she thought. He already speaks like one. And she thought she saw the bright glint of opportunity in his eye. “OK. Let’s leave that. What were your movements last night and this morning?”’
Father Jean said he had had an unexceptional evening. He had worked in the library until six, attended the evening service, had dinner, read for an hour, gone to chapel again then gone to bed at ten.
“In the morning I got up, attended chapel, spent an hour in prayer, ate and began work at seven. I stayed in the library until Father Paul came to say that there had been a terrible tragedy.”
“You sleep well?”’
He shrugged. “Well enough, I think. I need little sleep; we old men don’t, you know. I normally wake at about three and read.”
“And you did that last night?”’
“Yes.”
“What were you
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