Death and Restoration by Iain Pears Page B

reading?”’
    Father Jean looked a little sheepish. “Adventure stories,” he said. Flavia kept a straight face. “They are very entertaining, in the small hours. My nephew sends me them. Then I pass them on to all the other people here. We read them avidly.”
    “Is that … ah …?”’ Flavia knew she shouldn’t ask, but the vision of this community of old priests, up late at night reading varieties of bodice-rippers was too irresistible to let go.
    “Allowed?”’ Father Jean asked with a smile. “You think we should spend all our time reading St John of the Cross or a light Vatican encyclical? Oh, yes. It used not to be permitted, of course, but we are now allowed to keep in touch with the outside world. Even encouraged, as long as it doesn’t go too far.”
    “Yes. Right.” Flavia paused a while to remember what line she had been pursuing before this unlikely diversion had cropped up. “Now,” she continued, when it came back to her. “Where is your, ah, cell? Is that what you call them?”’
    “It faces the main courtyard. Opposite the church. Where I would have been in a good position to hear any shouting or screaming had any occurred.”
    “And it didn’t?”’
    He shook his head. “Nothing. And as I’m such a light sleeper, I feel certain I would have heard anything at all during the night. A bird singing is often enough to wake me up.”
    Flavia paused. Why was it that she did not believe him? He was sitting quietly, hands folded in his lap as though he was attending a long church service. There was nothing suspicious or hesitant about him at all, and yet she knew, as sure as anything, that at the very least he was concealing something.
    “Tell me, Father, how did Mr Menzies get the commission to clean the paintings?”’
    “He didn’t,” the old man replied. “He offered. We weren’t paying him. That was the only reason we accepted.”
    “He was working for nothing?”’
    “Yes. I believe there was a grant from some American charity. We had to pay only the expenses, although that amounted to a substantial sum.”
    “That’s unusual, isn’t it?”’
    “I suppose. He said he wanted to clean the pictures and was prepared to do it for nothing. Who were we to question his generosity?”’
    Flavia thanked him, and let him go, then turned to Alberto. “Well?”’
    “What?”’
    “You have a look on your face. Crazed monks beating each other’s heads in.”
    “No, I don’t,” he protested lazily, wondering whether you were allowed to smoke in monasteries. “I’m just sitting here quietly taking it all in, that’s all. I never prejudge things, not even when priests are concerned. My look of scepticism was merely to indicate my feeling that we aren’t getting anywhere. That’s all.”
    “Oh. That’s all right, then. Shall we see Signora Graziani next? And stop for lunch?”’
    Alberto agreed that an early lunch was by far the most professional way of proceeding. Signora Graziani was ushered in and sat down nervously. Flavia looked at her with satisfaction. No likelihood that this one would keep anything back, she thought. And as she discovered the attack, had a key and also seemed to have something of an obsession with the icon, she had a certain amount of convincing to do.
    She said that she had arrived and was just beginning to clean the church as usual when she saw Father Xavier. And screamed. There wasn’t much else to add, really. She lapsed readily back into a shocked silence.
    So Flavia established that she had been at home until leaving for the church, saw and heard nothing suspicious. Her daughter and granddaughter, who lived with her ever since that beast of a husband had left the poor dears destitute by running off with some floozy—may God forgive him, although she, Signora Graziani, wasn’t going to—would vouch for that.
    “You must remember, signora, that anything which can help might be of enormous importance here.”
    But she shook her head.