by James R Benn
“Buongiorno, Pietro,” May said in response. “The Vatican gardener. Excuse me, I must have a word with him.”
Kaz and I admired the gardens as May talked with Pietro. The smell of fresh manure drifted up from the flowerbeds. Palm trees rustled their fronds in the light breeze. Eight hundred days is a long time, but this beat any slammer I’d ever had to cool my heels in.
“Pietro is a lucky man,” Kaz said. “He lives in beauty that he tends with his own hands, and may leave when he wishes.”
“And he has a beautiful wife,” I said, watching as the curtains parted on the top floor, just below the orange-tiled roof. Lace gave way to a cascade of dark hair, large brown eyes, and translucent skin. She saw us looking, and hastily snapped the curtains shut.
“Or daughter,” Kaz said, smiling. “I may return to ask him how he keeps the bougainvillea in bloom.”
“Beware the farmer’s daughter,” I said, and noticed the quizzical look on Kaz’s face. I’d have to explain that one to him later.
Pietro reached into a wheelbarrow and gave May a burlap sack. May glanced around before slipping his hand in his pocket and then shaking hands with Pietro as he took his leave.
“Fine fellow, Pietro. He has a cousin with a farm in Cerqueto, brings in the manure for the gardens,” May said.
“That’s not what you have in the bag, is it?” I said, sniffing the air.
“Hardly,” May said. “There’s a false bottom in the manure cart. The Germans don’t bother an old farmer with a cart full of ripe cow droppings, so it’s an excellent way to bring food in. A fine cut of lamb today, with potatoes, carrots, and a pecorino cheese.”
“Why all the bother?” I asked. “The train we came in on was full of food.”
“Three boxcars of supplies won’t last a week here. There are thousands dependent on the Holy See to feed them. Everything has to be brought in-water, electricity, food, and fuel. The only natural resource here is prayer, and that does little to fill the belly. The food brought in by train is basic stuff, and Sir D’Arcy requires a level of dining to befit his status here.”
“So you deal in the black market,” Kaz said.
“Please, such a horrid term. I prefer to think of it as cutting out the middleman. It’s much more efficient to purchase food directly from the farmer who cultivates it, don’t you think?”
“That sounds reasonable,” Kaz said. “Pietro and his wife must enjoy the fresh food from his cousin, no doubt.”
“His wife died last year. He keeps to himself these days. He has some laborers who work in the gardens, but they don’t live here. He’s a nice chap, but shy, likes to be left alone. His cousin provides for us quite nicely. I hope you won’t be disappointed.”
“What do you mean?” I asked as Kaz and I exchanged raised eyebrows, both of us thinking that Pietro had good reason to value his privacy.
“You will be dining with Sir D’Arcy tonight,” May said, as we left the gardens behind and approached a long, narrow building, three stories high, taking up a full city block. “Stay close to me, we’re going inside. Don’t worry about the Germans.”
Before I could tell him I always worried about the Germans, May was chatting with one of the Vatican police guarding a side entrance. They shook hands, and I noticed the gendarme stuffing a pack of cigarettes into his pocket before opening the door and ushering us through.
“What exactly is it that you do for the British ambassador?” Kaz asked, clearly impressed.
“I am Sir D’Arcy’s butler,” May said, as if it should be obvious.
“Of course,” Kaz said, his continental background kicking in. He was a baron, after all. “That explains everything except why it was you who met the train.”
“All things in good time, gentlemen,” May said, opening the door to a wide passageway. “No English for a while, if you please.”
We stepped into the corridor, the vaulted ceilings glittering with gold leaf and brightly painted decorations. Closer to the ground, the colors were more gray-green, as German soldiers strolled past us, studying the frescoes that lined the walls. Maps. They were all maps of the Mediterranean. Italy, Sicily, North Africa. Medieval maps, but they showed the same lands and seaways we were fighting over. Not for the first time, I saw.
I brushed past two Germans pointing at a map of Sicily, surrounded by cobalt-blue waters and ships of the line in full sail. Their fingers traced lines in the air, and I understood they were talking about their days in Sicily, charting their withdrawal across the Strait of Messina. Had we shot at each other? Had I killed some of their pals, or they mine? For the moment they were tourists, unarmed, off duty. I had a strange desire to join them, to move my finger along the coast, into the interior, and see if our lines intersected.
“Padre, bitte?” One of them said, holding up a camera in that universal request to have a photograph taken. I nodded, trying for serene. The two of them posed in front of the Sicily fresco, arms around each other’s shoulders. I took the picture, hoping one of them might show his grandchildren this snapshot one day.
May shot me a look and I caught up with him. I didn’t see any reason to worry within these walls, especially not from a couple of privates gawking at the artwork. We left the museum building and walked along a roadway, passing a round tower that looked like it belonged on a castle. May took us under an arch in a narrow wall, and then we were there.
Saint Peter’s Square. Magnificent colonnades circled the piazza, with a view of the Tiber River one way and the facade of Saint Peter’s Basilica the other. Between them, a white line was painted on the stones, marking the border between the neutral Vatican and occupied Rome. German paratroopers guarded the line, their eyes searching those who approached. These guys were not off duty. Helmeted and heavily armed, they stopped and questioned several people approaching the square, eventually letting them all through. I noticed that people strolled out easily; it was those who wanted to enter who came under scrutiny.
“I thought you might want to see the scene of the crime,” May said. “As well as be cautioned not to get too close to the line. I wouldn’t put it past the Jerries to snatch a fellow if he came within arm’s reach.”
“All right, take us to Death’s Door,” I said, feeling a bit melodramatic as I said it.
The portico was gleaming white marble, the floor inlaid with the crests of Popes who had the clout to get the top billing. The central three doors were bronze, flanked by two plain oak doors, the Door of Death on the far left side.
“He was found here,” May said. “On the top step at the base of the door. The Swiss Guard who came across him at first thought he was an escaped POW or refugee sleeping under the cover of the portico. When he got close enough, he saw the cassock. And the blood.”
“Was the weapon found?”
“No. Soletto had the trash cans searched, but nothing was discovered. He was certain he had his man, so the search was halfhearted.”
“We were told that Corrigan had been stabbed between the ribs,” Kaz said. “It that the case?”
“Well, yes, in a manner of speaking,” May said. “He was stabbed a number of times. The killer finally thrust one into the heart.”
“How do you know all this?” I asked.
“I have friends among the Swiss Guard. I do them favors from time to time, and they repay the kindness. Sir D’Arcy likes to be well informed.”
“The duty of any good butler,” Kaz said.
“One aims to please,” May said, his mischievousness showing for a brief second.
“We need to come back tonight, to get a sense of the scene when he was stabbed,” I said.
“Pitch black,” May said. “The Vatican is blacked out at night, like the rest of Rome.”
“If Corrigan willingly came here,” Kaz said, standing on the marble steps leading up to the door, “it was to meet someone in secret, in the farthest, darkest corner of the square.”
“I’ll bring you here after dark, but let’s move on now
. There’s nothing to see and it will only attract attention.” He took us through the colonnade to the left of the portico and held up his hand. “We are going to that building, through the Piazza del Sant’Uffizio. We have to cross a bit of open ground.”
He pointed to the white line, which went from along the base of the colonnade and crossed a road leading into the piazza. A group of monks crossed toward us, and two nuns in the other direction. Two German paratroopers watched them with bored expressions.
“It looks safe,” I said, working at convincing myself.
“It is,” May said. “We took the long way around so I could show you the door, and avoid Soletto as well. It would have been a short walk from the Governatorato. But as you can see, people cross here as a matter of routine. They are not stopped if they are clearly crossing from the square. Look as if you belong.”
I held my hands together in contemplative prayer and followed. The paratroopers lit cigarettes and ignored us.
“Here’s where you’ll be staying,” May said a minute later. “The German College, but don’t be worried by the name. The nuns who run the place are German but quite loyal to the Pope. It was used to house German priests and seminarians who traveled to the Holy See, but that traffic has dropped off a bit, as you can imagine. One moment, please.” With that, he approached the Vatican gendarme who stood at the main door. They shook hands, chatted for a moment, and then the door was opened for us, the gendarme bowing like the doorman at the Copley Plaza.
“Why a guard at the door?” I asked as we stepped inside.
“This area is actually in Italian territory. The college was built up against the old wall marking the boundary of the Holy See. This is a public street, but the college has extraterritorial status and inside is considered sovereign Vatican territory. The guard is there to keep the public out, not to spy on you.”
“Tricky jurisdiction,” I said. “Let’s hope no bodies are found here.”
“Indeed,” May said with a lift of his bushy eyebrows, as if it were a real concern. He showed us to a small room, clean but Spartan. A bed against each side wall, a table and chairs in between. A washstand with a pitcher of water completed the scene.
“Your bags, gentlemen,” May said, indicating the suitcase on each bed. Next to them was a clean set of clothes, cassocks, the whole nine yards. “The clothing is complete with tailor’s labels from Rome, to be on the safe side.”
“You’re amazing, May,” I said. “Thank you.”
“It is nothing. I am sorry that hot water and heat are in short supply. There is a bathroom down the hall, with a good supply of warm water at best. His Holiness has decreed that all Vatican buildings are to go without heat this winter, since fuel is so scarce in Rome. He doesn’t wish the people to think we live a life of luxury in here.”
“It’s February, for crying out loud. Do you mean that the Vatican has no fuel at all?”
“No, there is a large supply of coal in bunkers hidden within the gardens. But it is not to be touched until the people of Rome have fuel restored. Now rest, and someone will bring you to Sir D’Arcy’s residence at eight o’clock.”
“The gendarme outside is okay, even if he works for Soletto?”
“He’s one of the best. That’s why he’s guarding your door. Have a rest and don’t worry. I imagine your journey must have been difficult.”
“Interesting,” Kaz said after May had left. “Two men, Brackett and May, in the same circumstances. One retreats inward, not daring to take any chances. The other seems to thrive, rising above the situation he finds himself in.”
“You never know about a guy,” I said. “Before the war, Brackett was probably a big shot, and May a servant. War, even if it isn’t a shooting war, puts pressure on everyone. Some can take it, others can’t. There’s no predicting.” I looked at Kaz, who’d been a skinny student before the war. He probably never thought he’d go near a gun or harm anyone. Now he was a scar-faced killer-wiry, wary, and strong.
“No,” Kaz agreed. “Life is strange, Billy. It is why I have come to appreciate it.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
We washed up, changed, and waited. Our window looked out upon a small, well-tended cemetery, bordered by a brick wall and decorated with cypresses and palm trees. This was the German College, so I figured it was filled with dead Germans, as was a lot of Italy.
“We made it, Kaz,” I said, thinking about how close we’d come to the wrong side of the grass. “There were times I wasn’t sure we would.”
“You’re a priest now, Billy, you must have faith,” Kaz said, adjusting his new cassock. Kaz managed to wear anything well, including these ankle-length priestly garments.
“Faith was easier back in Boston.”
“When you were a choirboy?”
“Yeah. And when there wasn’t a war chewing up half the world. Back then, everything had its proper place, you know? Church on Sunday, carrying in the candles, every week like clockwork. Seemed it would stay that way forever. Safe, predictable.”
“I think the church wants you to have faith in more than ritual,” Kaz said. “Although they certainly do love that.”
“I know,” I said, sitting on my bed and swinging my legs up. “It’s all the death, destruction, and fear that makes it tough. Hard to imagine this is all part of God’s plan.” Fear was the big one for me. Fear of dying, fear of mutilation, fear for Diana. It was hard to shake. Shattered buildings could be restored, better than new, but not the heart and soul after fear had gnawed at them.
“That’s why they came up with the idea of faith,” Kaz said. “It answers all questions without giving anything away. Clever.”
“You’re not big on faith yourself, are you?” I asked.
“No,” Kaz said, gazing out the window. “Dust to dust, I think it is no more than that.”
“I see now why you had a short career as an altar boy.”
“Yes.” Kaz laughed. “My thoughts on theology were not welcome. Nor was my suggestion that the church should give all its riches away for the poor. Now here we are, at the Vatican itself, surrounded by immense wealth and an ample supply of coal. Yet, we are chilled to the bone. As I said, in life one encounters many strange things.”
“Like giving the last rites to a dying soldier. He had the ceremony, but not the absolution. We have fuel, but no warmth.”
“He is dead, Billy. You gave him comfort in his last moments. That is all that matters. Priest or no priest, it makes no difference.”
“I wish I were that sure, Kaz.” I laid my head down on the pillow, closing my eyes as if that would stop the doubts and questions.
I tried to think through what I knew about this murder. That didn’t take long, and a heavy blanket of weariness weighed on me as confused images swam through my mind. Dreams of burning cities, dead soldiers, priests in their billowing, black cassocks, and a sharp, pounding noise that wouldn’t go away.
“Billy,” Kaz said, shaking me awake. I threw off the blanket-Kaz must have put that on me-and stood, realizing the noise was someone knocking at the door. I blinked myself awake, and noticed Kaz stashing something in his suitcase before going for the door.
“Welcome, Fathers,” a voice boomed out as soon as Kaz swung the door open. The accent was Italian, the pronunciation precise, as if he worried about getting every word right. “I am Monsignor Renato Bruzzone.” Bruzzone tossed off a cape, under which he wore a black cassock with red trim and a purple sash, showing off his rank of monsignor.
“Monsignor,” I said, unsure of how exactly to address one. “I am Father Boyle, and this is Father Dalakis.”
“Yes, yes, but I know these are not your real names. No matter, I am glad you are here.”
Monsignor Bruzzone had a full head of thick, black hair, and a good start on a five o’clock shadow. He was taller than me, with broad shoulders and dark, steady eyes that studied us, watching the confusion on our faces.
“Real names?” Kaz said, a look of practiced befuddleme
nt worrying his brow.
“Come now, gentlemen, I am here to help. Sit, please.” He gestured to the table as if we had come to visit him. Rank has its privileges everywhere. “Your arrival has been noted by many. The Vatican is a small place, with many big ears and eyes. As well as tongues!” He chuckled at his little joke, lifting an eyebrow, inviting us to join in the laughter.
“How did you note our arrival, Monsignor?” Kaz asked.
“Some of those eyes and tongues work for me. It is helpful to watch the comings and goings here, especially in this building.”
“Why this building?” I asked.
“Surely you know?” Our blank stares answered his question. “This is one of the two buildings where escaped Allied prisoners of war live. The other is the barracks of the Swiss Guard. Amusing, isn’t it?”
“Monsignor, you certainly know more than we do,” I said. “But I do know you were a colleague of Monsignor Edward Corrigan’s. Have you come here to tell us what you know about his death?”
“Sadly, no,” he said, his lips pursed. He fished in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and lit one up, his silver lighter polished and gleaming. He offered the pack to both of us, and we declined. They were Junos, a German brand. “These are terrible, but in times like these any tobacco will do. No, I cannot tell you much about Edward, except that he was a fine man. It is a shame for him to end that way.”
“Dead?”
“Well, yes, but to be attacked by someone he was trying to help, that was terrible.”
“How do you know he was trying to help the man who stabbed him?” Kaz asked.
“It stands to reason. He was a Jew with no place to hide. He must have escaped the roundup of Roman Jews last October and been at his wit’s end. You’d be surprised at how many refugees we have hidden here. Not just POWs, but Jews, antifascist Italians, and even German deserters. Somehow, this poor fellow must have heard about Edward and made contact. Perhaps he panicked, perhaps he had gone mad. Who knows? It could as well been myself, or Monsignor O’Flaherty.”
