by Maeve Binchy
‘Eh, eh, eh … Sisters, is it? Eh, that’ll be Sister Alice and Sister Mary
Magdalene from … from …?’
‘From Doon Abbey, Brother,’ Alice demurely confirmed.
‘And eh, it’s in connection with – with what, Sister Alice?’ he rasped, a small bubble of saliva escaping from his thin lips.
‘It’s in connection with the theft at Doon Abbey,’ Maggie interjected, straightening her skirt.
Brother Harkin hesitated, and then looked slowly from one to the other again. He made a few attempts to speak, all of which failed, before a certain resignation overcame him.
‘I’ll see if I can find Father Rector,’ he said at last, beholding the two nuns with beatific but startled grey eyes.
As Brother Harkin shuffled off into the innards of the building, Alice found herself longing for another cigarette. Crazy. All those months in Doon Abbey without them, and now just twenty-four hours on the road with Maggie and she continually craved nicotine.
‘This is a very tenuous lead, Maggie,’ she whispered. ‘I mean, just because the Jesuits once owned a Caravaggio, which they didn’t even recognise, doesn’t mean that they’re likely to know where our Caravaggio is.’
‘That’s what I just told you outside,’ Maggie said.
In the silent hallway, a marble statue of an armoured Saint Ignatius Loyola, sword in hand, gazed down upon them.
‘We could always join another religious order,’ Alice suggested. ‘They mightn’t take me, but you’re a fully qualified nun.’
‘I think I prefer Doon Abbey,’ Maggie said.
The sound of energetic footsteps and squeaking leather shoes could be heard. Double doors at the back of the hallway sprang open and a tall man emerged, dressed in black except for the classic grey Jesuit day-shirt. Behind him, Brother Harkin tacked along in quiet, almost ghostly attendance.
‘Sisters! I am so, so sorry to have kept you waiting!’
Father Rector Jonathan Rynne displayed an arresting set of white teeth as he extended his hand in greeting. He was smooth-skinned and well shaven, and his eyes were a clear, penetrating blue. Alice could see at once the resemblance to Sister Mercy Superior. As the Rector advanced, a waft of eau de toilette preceded him.
‘You are Sister Alice.’
‘I am, Father.’
‘I have just spoken to Mercy, and she tells me how much she values your help in this appalling business. She tells me that you are the answer to her prayers.’
The strength of his palm as he gripped Alice made her concentrate. She allowed her hand to be squeezed, rather than responding as she might have done in different circumstances by subtly manipulating the first digit of her right hand beneath the third digit of the shaker’s hand, thus touching on the super-sensitive nerva occula manum and disabling the grip of an over-enthusiastic hand-shaker.
‘And in that case, you must be Sister Mary Magdalene.’ Maggie smiled but kept her hands behind her back.
‘My sister has asked me to take special care of you,’ he said kindly, ‘since she says you are still but a child of the world.’
Maggie shuddered with pleasure under the warmth of his concern.
‘Very well, Sisters, please come with me to my study,’ the Rector said, and ushered them forward, down the wide corridor and up a marble staircase. ‘I was just about to have a cup of Brother Harkin’s excellent lapsang souchong.’
Along the corridor, Alice could sense the celibates who occupied this building: old men drowsing, praying or reading, old men fiddling at computers, or old men perhaps too advanced in years to do any of those things. They had arrived in a room impregnated with cigar smoke. The Rector sat at a broad desk that was furnished with a PC, a Mont Blanc fountain-pen, a notebook and a desk diary.
‘First of all, Sisters, let me offer my sympathies on your loss. It’s like a death, isn’t it? What kind of country are we living in? What will be next? Mercy is distraught, as you know. She feels so personally responsible. Only this morning we said a special Mass here in the oratory for the safe return of Doon Abbey’s Caravaggio.’ ‘Thank you, Father,’ Alice said.
Spectral Brother Harkin poured the smoky, aromatic tea and then offered them shortcake. Alice felt her neck hairs tingle each time he came near her.
‘Of course, I would lock these thieves away for life,’ the Rector was saying. ‘How dare they! I mean, apart from putting your community’s future at risk, think of the vandalism where the painting is concerned. You may know that I have often come to Doon Abbey on retreat.’
‘I have seen you over the years, Father,’ Maggie said respectfully.
‘And I remember you in choir, Sister Mary Magdalene,’ said the Rector with a twinkle in his eye. ‘A voice like a nightingale, if I may say so.’ Maggie went bright red.
‘Of course,’ the Rector went on, ‘one of my great pleasures was to spend time in your lovely chapel, alone with Judas Iscariot, as it were.’
Alice must have shown a twitch of surprise because the Rector then leant forward, patted her arm and said, ‘Remember, Sister, that without Judas there would have been no Passion. No Crucifixion, no Resurrection. Judas was God the Father’s instrument too. Always remember that.’
‘Yes, Father,’ Alice murmured.
The Rector sipped his tea. ‘Now what exactly can I do for you, Sisters? I am a mere theologian, but rest assured, I will do whatever I can.’
Alice cursed herself for making this trip. She was trying to think of a way to excuse herself, when Maggie spoke.
‘We’re looking for the painting, Father, but we know very little about art. It’s well known that Aylesmere houses a wonderful art collection, so we thought we’d come here and see what we could learn from you. We thought that in your wisdom you might be able to outline for us the type of person who might be drawn to a painting of this kind.’
‘Hmm.’
Alice could see Maggie’s direct plea to the man’s vanity playing across his face. Neither had she missed the sideways glances he had shot at both Alice and Maggie’s legs when he had thought their attention was otherwise diverted.
‘I understand that, with your particular calling to an enclosed apostate, opportunities for viewing art in general and Caravaggio in particular are more limited than most,’ he began.
‘We considered those sacrifices before we entered, Father,’ Maggie said.
‘Indeed, Sister, indeed. So since you’re searching for a Caravaggio, perhaps I should make some comments on that rascally artist. He was a genius, of course, and only twenty-four authenticated works are known to have survived, excluding the Judas Iscariot fragment, which of course is what it says on the tin – just a fragment.’ The Rector chuckled at his little joke.
‘A few years ago in Berlin, for example, I saw Love Conquers All for the first time, and I was enraptured. However, my favourite Caravaggio is Saint John the Baptist in the Wilderness. It hangs in the University of Kansas. What a contradiction Caravaggio laid down! John the Baptist is at the peak of physical health – whole, radiant – not in the least starved after his time in the wilderness. But it doesn’t matter! The painting’s brilliance, its audacious tonal varieties, its genius moves us beyond mere narrative. That’s what makes Caravaggio unique!’
‘You are passionate about Caravaggio, anyone can see that, Father,’ Maggie said. It was warm in the study, and she had half-unzipped her golf jacket.
‘But you ask me who might be drawn to such a masterpiece?’ the Rector mused, his eyes now drawn to Maggie’s upper body. ‘Apart from authentic collectors, the Church, national galleries all over the world?’ He drummed his fingertips on his temples. ‘You see, ladies, there is a certain side to Caravaggio that has always appealed to, shall we say, the undesirable element in society. He killed a man, you know, Caravaggio. Oh yes. God forgive them, but some people are drawn to that.’
People like Jeremy Meadowfield, Alice thought bleakly.
‘Other than that …’ The Rector smacked his
knees with the palms of his hands and stood up. ‘But come, Sisters! You can’t visit here without seeing our modest little collection.’ He shot them a naughty-boy look.
‘Forgive me, but I don’t often get the opportunity to show off.’
As the Rector flung open further doors at the back of his study,
Maggie looked at Alice, and Alice could see tears of admiration welling up in the convent librarian’s lovely eyes. She was wondering how she could get Maggie out of there without offending the Rector when her mobile phone rang.
‘I’ll follow you,’ she said, and looked at her phone. A mobile number she didn’t recognise had come up. ‘Hello?’
‘Sister Alice?’
‘Yes?’
‘My name is Ashley Kelly-Lidrov,’ a man’s voice purred.
Dublin Southside
16 June, 12.30 PM
Maggie’s eyes were enlarged as she got into the Berlingo.
‘How did he get your number?’ she asked as she handed over the lighted cigarette and then flamed one into life for herself.
‘I don’t know,’ Alice replied, and inhaled smoke deeply. ‘Just said he had flown in and was staying in the Shelbourne. I mean, who knows this number?’
As she turned the key in the ignition, an ominous, grating sound came from the van’s engine.
‘Oh no!’ Alice cried. ‘Not now!’
Thirty seconds later, she had raised the bonnet and was standing over the engine, sniffing.
‘What is it?’ Maggie asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ Alice replied, trying to remember the details of the mechanics course that had been part of her training. ‘This engine smells like death and looks like it should have been put out of its misery years ago.’
‘The van was meant to have been replaced with a new one, but Sister Mercy Superior said we couldn’t afford it,’ Maggie said.
Alice got down and lay on the gravel to peer under the chassis.
‘Can I help you, Sisters?’
Both Alice and Maggie jumped. ‘Oh!’
Neither of them had heard Brother Harkin approaching.
‘Ah, Brother,’ Alice said, getting up. ‘Our van won’t start, sorry.’
‘Hmm,’ Brother Harkin said, ‘I see.’
‘I think we’d better call a taxi,’ Alice said. ‘Do you have a number?’
‘Yes, of course I do, I have a list of them, but first, would you like me to take a little look at what’s the matter with our friend here?’ asked Brother Harkin.
He went to the back of the Berlingo, opened the doors and rummaged around until he found an ancient-looking toolkit. Then he came back to the engine, opened the canvas straps of the toolkit, laid it out on the engine and began probing the rubber hoses, wires, pipes and other moveable parts that were accessible.
He knew what he was doing – or at least he appeared to, Alice thought. But then she recalled Ned, in similar circumstances, poking at the innards of her old Renault 4, when really he hadn’t had a clue. It was as if men regarded engines as a challenge to their virility – except that virility wasn’t what came to mind with Brother Harkin. Alice winked at Maggie; Maggie shrugged, and rolled her eyes.
Only Brother Harkin’s legs were now visible, sticking out from under the front of the van. He was a lot taller when you saw him from this angle, Alice thought. Harkin hauled himself up, wheezing, then plunged back under the bonnet. It’s time to get that taxi, Alice thought, and reached for her phone.
‘Now, Sisters,’ said Brother Harkin, straightening up, his hands covered in oil, ‘I think that should do it.’
‘Have you found the problem, Brother?’ Alice asked.
‘I think you have a little touch of cylinder head gasket,’ said Brother Harkin in his sibilant voice, ‘but I’ve tightened the head best I can, and now, before you start her, I’m going to fill the radiator with water.’
Alice smiled brightly. ‘You’re a genius!’ she said. ‘How did you learn to do that?’
Brother Harkin had resumed his bent posture. ‘I worked in a garage before I discovered my true vocation,’ he said. ‘Now, Sisters, please be patient and I’ll go and fetch the water. Unfortunately, I’m not as quick as I used to be.’
Dublin
16 June, 1.15 PM
The white van weaved through light traffic, its engine running smoothly.
‘What’s Kelly-Lidrov doing in Dublin?’ Alice asked. ‘It has to be because of the Caravaggio.’
‘He’s an art dealer,’ Maggie said.
‘But how does a New York art dealer know this mobile number?’
Alice asked again, as they nipped through an amber light. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘Your friend the detective sergeant knows this number, since you rang him on this phone,’ Maggie said.
‘Sebastian doesn’t give out numbers,’ Alice said. ‘Who else knows it?’
Maggie frowned. ‘Sister Mercy Superior and Sister Columba,’ she said unhappily.
‘Exactly,’ Alice said.
Alice took a chance and used the bus lane. In a strange way, it was good to be back.
‘I wonder what’s really going on?’ Maggie said, and lit another cigarette. Twin smoke trails gushed from her nose. ‘I mean, is it possible that we’ve been set up?’
‘The possibility crossed my mind,’ Alice said.
‘I don’t like Sister Columba, and I’m terrified of Sister Mercy Superior, but that doesn’t make them criminals,’ Maggie said. ‘But why would Kelly-Lidrov fly over here in the first place?’
‘Maybe he’s looking for something.’
‘You mean, like we’re looking for something?’
‘Yes, that’s exactly what I mean,’ Alice said thoughtfully, as she pulled up at a red light. The van’s exhaust began to rattle ominously.
‘Go back over the telephone conversation again,’ Maggie said, as she blew a series of perfect smoke rings.
‘I asked how I could help him, and he gave a sort of chilling laugh.
He said, “Sister Alice, I know we’ve never met, but I’m in Dublin because I have heard about the missing painting: our Caravaggio.”’
‘He said “our Caravaggio”?’
‘Yes, I’m pretty sure he did,’ Alice said, first away as the lights went green. ‘In fact I’m certain.’
‘Which suggests he believes it’s his,’ Maggie said. ‘What then?’
‘He told me he was staying in the Shelbourne, and suggested we meet. He gave me his room number and then hung up.’
Through Stillorgan and Donnybrook, Alice felt a tightening in her stomach, just like in the old days before a big surveillance job paid off, except now there had been no surveillance and there was no sign of a pay-off. A double-decker bus pulled level with the van, its powerful engine throbbing.
‘The Rector is a nice man,’ Maggie said. ‘Very considerate.’
‘Not like his sister, you mean,’ Alice said. ‘He liked you, though, Maggie. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.’
‘Oh, stop that!’ Maggie said. ‘I would quite like to have seen his art collection, though. Pity we had to leave.’
‘I bet you were flirting your pretty head off with him when you were waiting for me.’ Alice burst out laughing.
‘At least he’s on our side,’ Maggie said, blushing.
‘Oh, Maggie,’ Alice said fondly. ‘Why did you ever become a nun?’
Dublin
June 16, 12.45 PM
Sebastian Hayes propped one foot on his desk as he took the call from Morgan Kinsey. A mug of coffee cooled beside him. He had received several phone-calls in the last half-hour about the latest Dublin murder, committed in Parnell Street the night before. It had been a grisly one, possibly racist, because the victim was African. It had involved a deliberate skin-flaying prior to the severing of a carotid artery.
Automatically, he reached forward and took a long drink as the Geordie on the line began to speak.
‘Jeremy Meadowfield. Sounds nice, dunnit?
A deliberate posh choice, I’d say. Real name Jason Trammel, small-time conman and general felon.’
Sebastian had ceased to be surprised at anything in his job. The trick, he suspected, was to avoid becoming a cynic.
‘Meadowfield/Trammel has quite a list of convictions,’ the Scotland Yard detective continued. ‘I’m zapping everything over to you as we speak, but in a nutshell the late Mr Meadowfield first did time for minor drugs offences back in the mid-nineties. Then, when he got out, he moved into the art world.’
‘The art world?’
‘Precisely. His next conviction is for attempted theft of a minor painting from a gallery in Soho. Interestingly, he pleaded that he was stealing to order. The chap he tried to pin it on lived in New York, so we couldn’t get to him. His name was Ashley Kelly-Lidrov,’ the Englishman said. ‘Now, the interesting thing about Mr Kelly-Lidrov is that he is an associate of a very nasty piece of work known as Metro, who I think you’ll be familiar with.’
‘Metro,’ Sebastian said. ‘Well, I’ll be damned.’
Ten minutes later, Sebastian poured himself another cup of coffee and scrolled down the links on his screen. Kazakhstan-born Mafia boss Matthias Taboroski, aka Metro, now a part-time resident of south Kildare, was widely suspected of being a major force in Ireland’s drugs underworld. And, Sebastian now realised, Metro’s Irish base was a mere three miles from Doon Abbey. Now there was another link: an associate of Metro’s was the nephew of the woman who had bequeathed the Caravaggio to Doon Abbey.
Sebastian did a quick Internet search. The most recent image of Ashley Kelly-Lidrov had been taken only two months before. He appeared unshaven, with dark discs of perspiration leaking into his shirt as he lumbered along from the New York courthouse where his bankruptcy hearing had taken place. The photographer had thrust the camera up into his jowly, defeated-looking face.
‘I wonder where you are now, my friend?’ Sebastian asked aloud.
Dublin
