Sign of the Cross

by Thomas Mogford

  ‘The least I can do.’

  ‘Gentlemen?’ came the Baroness’s soprano voice.

  The dining room gave onto another side of the courtyard. Four places had been laid at the end of a long, cherrywood table. Between them sat a decanter of red wine and a tureen heated by tea lights.

  ‘Rufus?’ the Baroness said, drawing out a chair at the head.

  Above, flickering in the candlelight, hung a more recent portrait of the Baron. He stood somewhat awkwardly, arms concealed by black robes. Stitched to the front of his garment was a white, eight-pointed Maltese cross.

  The Baroness followed Rufus’s gaze. ‘Somewhat vulgar, but we do have a duty to support our local artists.’

  Rufus sat down. ‘When did you join the order?’ he said, looking at the Baron.

  ‘Last year.’

  ‘And about time too,’ the Baroness added, reaching over to the tureen, ‘given how much charitable work Michael does. Not to mention the business he has brought to these islands, at no personal benefit to himself.’

  As if in confirmation of this, she raised the lid to reveal a humble dish of baked pasta. ‘Clara’s speciality,’ she said, spooning some steaming penne onto Rufus’s plate. ‘She’s more an Italian Maltese than a British.’

  Silence weighed on the table.

  ‘So you’re a knight, then?’ Spike said.

  The Baron smiled modestly. ‘Only in the modern sense.’

  ‘Which is?’

  The Baron did not need to be asked twice. ‘To understand the modern,’ he said in the tones of the practised after-dinner speaker, ‘first we must return to the past.’ He launched into an indulgent history of the Order of St John, ‘the oldest chivalric order in the world’ – its origin as a pilgrims’ hospital in Jerusalem in 1099, its militarisation during the Crusades, its eviction from the Holy Land after the fall of Jerusalem, a stint on Rhodes before finally being awarded Malta in 1530. This had been a gift from the Spanish Emperor, Charles V, after the knights’ earlier struggles against the infidel, granted at a rent of two Maltese hunting falcons a year, one for the Viceroy of Sicily, one for the Emperor himself. ‘A prescient move,’ the Baron said proudly, ‘as of course the knights went on to win the Great Siege of 1565, so repelling the Ottomans and saving the whole of Christendom from Islamic domination.’

  Rufus gave a snort. ‘Saviours of Christendom in 1565. Of Europe in World War II –’

  ‘So what exactly is a knight?’ Spike said, cutting him off.

  The Baron looked sharply at Rufus, then resumed. ‘The Knights of St John were chosen from the great Catholic families of Europe. There were three hundred or so living on Malta at any one time, and they clustered together according to their nationalities, or “langues” – French, German, English, Spanish, Italian, et cetera. Each nationality had its own “auberge”, or inn, from where they administered the islands – the Italians took care of shipping, the French the hospital, and so on. A bit like an early European Commission, I always say.’

  I’ll bet you do, Spike thought.

  ‘By the time Napoleon captured Malta in 1798,’ the Baron went on, ‘the knights had grown decadent. The gunpowder they’d stored against future Turkish attacks had become rotten. The strength of Europe had increased, so their role as protectors of the Catholic Church was no longer relevant. They put up minimal resistance, and were expelled, after which the British were forced to free Malta from French tyranny, so giving us our 150 happy years as part of the British Empire, before independence arrived in 1964.’

  ‘So the knights vanished?’ Spike said.

  ‘Not exactly. They no longer had a home, so they splintered. The British and German “langues” grew to accommodate Protestantism. The Italians retrenched to Rome. And that was when we started to look to the old traditions.’

  Rufus glanced up from his penne. ‘The St John Ambulance. Finest volunteer brigade in the world.’

  ‘That was the principal contribution of the British “langue”, yes.’

  Spike had seen the ambulances without ever associating them with knights and sieges. ‘We have them in Gib.’

  ‘Indeed . . . the naval bases of Gibraltar and Malta were among the first parts of Empire to receive the service.’

  ‘In 1883,’ Rufus said.

  ‘But don’t forget the work of the other chapters,’ the Baron said quickly. ‘The German “langue” still runs hospitals and nursing homes, despite being persecuted by the Nazis on account of their Christian faith. The Sovereign Order in Rome now organises up to 100,000 volunteers in over 120 countries. We even have a hospital in Jerusalem, within sight of the original hospital the order founded nine centuries ago. And, to complete the circle, the order now has significant holdings in Malta, with a number of the annual dinners and events held here in Valletta.’

  ‘It is particularly appropriate Michael has been invited to join,’ the Baroness said, ‘given that members of his family were knights by birth, before the order even came to Malta.’

  ‘Does Teresa’s charity form part of your work?’ Spike said.

  The Baron wiped his mouth with a napkin thoughtfully. ‘Whilst we respect the concept of Teresa’s charity, we, like many others on the island, consider it . . . misguided.’

  ‘Custos pauperum,’ Rufus said.

  Spike assumed his father was just speaking with his mouth full, but the phrase seemed to have an effect on the Baron. ‘That’s easy for you to say, Rufus – you don’t have to live here.’

  Spike looked from one to the other, as though preparing to arbitrate a legal mediation.

  ‘The Grand Master of the Knights still bears the title “Custos Pauperum”, Rufus explained. ‘ “Guardian of the Poor”. For the original Knights of St John, the poor didn’t just represent Christ. They were Christ. The hospital in Jerusalem looked after the needy regardless of creed or colour.’

  ‘And so they should be looked after,’ the Baron said, ‘just not here in Malta. We’re already the most densely populated country in the EU. Put together, our islands are smaller than the Isle of Wight. There’s simply not enough room for a continuous influx of migrants.’

  ‘I assure you,’ Rufus said, ‘that for a Gibraltarian, Malta is positively spacious.’

  Spike glanced back up at the portrait. The ancient monastic outfit in the contemporary style appeared faintly ridiculous.

  ‘We clear ourself,’ the Baroness said, ‘it is good for us.’

  The Baron remained seated, arms crossed, as Spike gathered the plates. ‘I visited the cathedral today,’ he said. ‘The Caravaggios were magnificent.’

  ‘Special, special paintings,’ the Baroness murmured, carrying the tureen to the sideboard.

  The Baron was shaking his head. ‘The Co-Cathedral packed out with cattle no doubt, all pointing their camera phones. One thousand years of heritage reduced by the Maltese government to a circus.’

  ‘Custos pauperum,’ Rufus repeated, and this time the Baron threw down his napkin and returned to the drawing room.

  ‘Digestif?’ the Baroness asked.

  Spike stared across the table at Rufus. ‘We should probably –’

  ‘Please excuse Michael,’ the Baroness said quietly. ‘He is still shaken by what happened to David and Teresa. It was he who had to make the identification. In situ, as it were.’

  The Maltese terrier limped into the dining room, the Baroness scooping it into her arms, pressing its shaggy white coat to her bosom. Beneath its eyes, the fur was marked with rusty stains, as though it had been weeping blood. ‘Your master and David were very close lately, weren’t they?’ the Baroness chimed in a sing-song voice as she caressed the dog’s muzzle.

  Goodbyes said, Spike escorted Rufus through the dark streets, passing a silent group of nuns coming the other way. He checked his mobile and found a spinning message icon in the corner: Zahra, confirming the trip tomorrow. His spirits lifted momentarily, then he remembered his bruised elbow and accompanying warning. Go home, foreigner.
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  Father de Maro brings the Fiat to a halt in the scrubby car park behind the chapel. He opens its dented door, straining against the breeze. What is that saying the Italians have? Febbraio, febbraietto, short and cursed. How accurate, he thinks to himself as he battles his way out of the driver’s seat.

  His cassock billows as he opens the back door and takes out two plastic bags. One contains candles, the other the loaves of bread he picked up from the bakery on his way through Rabat. Only two trades left in Gozo that get a man up before dawn: God and dough. Head down against the breeze, the priest sets off towards the chapel.

  As he walks, he thinks to himself – as he does each year – of the absurdity of tonight’s ceremony. The Blessing of the Loaves . . . The earliest images of St Agatha showed her tilting up a tray towards God. Medieval monks had assumed that what lay on the tray was bread: two indeterminate brown lumps. Nowadays, Malta’s patron saint is better known to be holding up her own breasts, sliced off on the orders of a spurned and lascivious Roman governor.

  The innocence of those monks . . . Most of the religious art the priest has seen is unstinting in its violence. Is the gore a way of showing people the dedication demanded of them by their faith? Or is there something else at play? Titillation? Or a warning that with beauty – for the saints were always beautiful – comes danger, so be satisfied with your lot, you plain and humble folk, and get back to work.

  Clumps of prickly pears sprout from the limestone that surrounds the chapel, last year’s purple fruits withered on the spongy rims of their pads. As the priest rounds the corner, he pauses to stare out over the cliff face. The channel between Gozo and Comino is a fury of blue and white flecks. Waves crash into the caves below. These days, the priest is aware of how he takes refuge in the mechanics of the job, finds irony in its ancient absurdities. But a view like this . . . He breathes in the salty air, then turns towards the chapel with renewed purpose.

  Entering the vestibule, he glances up at the madonna above the lintel, her placid eyes staring out to sea. As he looks back down, he stops. A dusty black motorcycle is parked to the side of the chapel.

  The priest remembers the art historian who promised to return before feast day. He hadn’t imagined him on a motorbike, but then on the rare occasions he does make it over to the main island, he is amazed at how society is changing. Sometimes you barely see a Maltese face.

  He expects to find the historian sitting inside on the bench seat, but no one is there. The door to the chapel is ajar. Had he forgotten to lock it last night? More than likely.

  Putting down the heavier of the two bags, he extends a hand to the latch, hesitating as he sees a chunk of wood chiselled from beneath the lock. Someone must have broken in. Judging by the motorbike, they are still inside.

  As the priest steps backwards, he stumbles on the candles and knocks against the bench seat. A clatter comes from inside the door, and he turns and hurries back out to the path.

  Father de Maro’s wheezing breaths dissipate in the breeze. Footsteps approach, crunching on shingle. He stares out again at the majesty of the sea, then turns to face his fate.

  Chapter Five

  1

  Spike finished the portion of deep-fried dates and patted his stomach. Time to find something green to eat on this island. Moving to the edge of the walkway, he looked down into the St James Ditch, noting that the builders’ skip in which Mifsud’s photographs had landed had vanished, only a pale rectangle remaining on the muddy ground. When he glanced back up, Zahra was making her approach beneath the City Gate.

  Zahra’s blue cotton dress stopped just below the knee, revealing smooth tanned calves and small feet in spotless white trainers. A row of mother-of-pearl buttons followed her neckline downwards; in deference to winter, a cream cardigan was looped across her shoulders.

  Spike waved at her, his fingers still covered in a sugary sheen from breakfast. Zahra continued towards him, face neutral. As they kissed hello, he caught a hint of the citrus scent he’d once known well. ‘I thought you’d be coming from the other direction,’ he said.

  ‘I dropped by the office first.’

  ‘But you’re free now?’

  She nodded, a strand of black hair falling from behind one ear. Spike quashed the urge to tuck it back, then followed her onto the number 45 bus. He hovered in the aisle; eventually she lifted her handbag from the seat beside her, and he sat down. A vintage Penguin paperback nestled inside. ‘What are you reading?’

  ‘The Great Gatsby.’

  ‘Any good?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Great?’

  She conceded a tight smile, then looked away as a pair of elderly men boarded, one carrying a pilgrim’s wooden staff.

  ‘So,’ Spike said to Zahra’s cool profile.

  She turned, and he stared into her almond-shaped eyes. ‘So,’ she replied.

  ‘I’m sorry about last time. There was a lot going on.’

  ‘Why did you ask me to come to Gozo, Spike?’

  The bus pulled out, and Spike glanced again at the pilgrims. The taller man was resting his head on the shoulder of the smaller. Spike took out the Mifsud diary and handed it to Zahra, open on today’s date.

  ‘Olsa,’ she read aloud.

  ‘This belonged to David.’

  Zahra scoffed. ‘So now it is David who was having the affair. With some Russian beauty called Olsa.’

  Spike flipped back to the week before Mifsud’s death.

  ‘Our Lady of St Agatha,’ Zahra said slowly, her reading more tentative than her spoken English. ‘O-L-S-A . . . I get it.’

  ‘I think David may have been working on something in this church. Unconnected to his day job.’

  ‘So?’

  Spike closed the diary. ‘So I haven’t told you everything.’

  ‘Imagine that.’

  The bus came to a halt, and a Maltese youth got on. He leered unashamedly at Zahra; Spike wondered if he’d have done so had she not been dressed as a European. When he glared back, the youth dropped his gaze and fell into a seat behind the pilgrims.

  ‘The police are convinced it was a murder–suicide,’ Spike resumed. ‘But I don’t buy it. That level of violence, to a woman he loved . . .’ He winced as a photograph of the murder scene flickered through his mind. ‘Yesterday I went to the police station in Floriana. I spoke to Assistant Commissioner Azzopardi. Have you heard of him?’

  ‘His father’s the Commissioner.’

  ‘He told me Teresa had sex with someone shortly before she died.’

  ‘So she was having an affair?’

  Spike lowered his voice. ‘According to the forensic evidence.’

  ‘Which you don’t believe.’

  ‘I just can’t see my uncle committing murder. Can you?’

  Zahra shook her head.

  ‘My father feels the same, so I promised him I’d look into it. Retrace David’s movements in the days leading up to his death. So far so uneventful, but then things start to get strange. I find out David was in Gozo the week before he died – and that he had appointments scheduled for the day after he was supposed to have committed suicide. Then, when I pick up some photos he’d taken, some psycho tries to push me into the ditch by the bus terminus.’

  ‘What photos?’

  Spike glanced over. ‘I’m fine. Thanks for asking.’

  Zahra bit back a smile.

  ‘They’re of a painting.’

  ‘What does Gozo have to do with it?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. But there was something there that David was interested in.’

  Zahra paused. ‘And why do you want me?’

  ‘You speak Maltese. I thought it might come in handy.’

  She folded her arms across her cardigan. ‘I knew it. Well, maybe you can do something for me.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Help me find that missing girl.’

  ‘Dinah?’

  ‘She never registered at the family camp. Gave birth last month at the Mate
r Dei Hospital, then checked out and hasn’t been seen since.’

  ‘You said the migrants often disappear.’

  ‘With a newborn?’

  ‘What does John think?’

  ‘He wasn’t at the office this morning.’

  ‘And what do you want me to do about it?’

  Zahra narrowed her eyes and turned to the window. Spike followed her gaze. The bus was passing through the tightly bound streets of a town. To the right rose an enormous church, circular in shape like the Coliseum.

  ‘That’s the Rotunda,’ Zahra said, adjusting her position to get a better view. ‘You’ve heard of the Miracle of Mosta?’

  Spike shook his head, feeling a pang as he remembered how she used to humble him with her eagerness to keep learning more.

  ‘In World War II,’ she went on, ‘a German bomb fell through the roof. Hundreds of people were gathered inside for Mass. The bomb hit the floor. The people stared at it. It never exploded.’

  ‘The power of prayer,’ Spike said as the bus pulled into a rare stretch of open countryside. Most of Malta seemed determined to merge into a single urban agglomeration, but here the hills were undeveloped, their flat planed-off aspect suggesting glaciers or volcanoes. Spike remembered talk of prehistoric temples hidden deep below the ground. The concrete sprawl recommenced as they came into St Paul’s Bay. ‘See out there,’ Zahra said.

  Spike looked beyond the harbour to three wave-lashed outcrops of rock.

  ‘That’s where St Paul was shipwrecked. He was on his way to Italy but got blown off course.’

  ‘A familiar tale.’

  ‘The locals took him in. He converted Publius, the Roman governor, and the rest of Malta followed. One of the oldest Christian nations in the world, and guess what their word for God is?’

  ‘Tourism?’

  ‘Alla. The only language in the world with an Arabic grammar and a Western script. Did you know that?’

  ‘I did not.’

  The pilgrims got off the bus, the younger helping the elder down the steps. The next development offered something of a party street. A hand-painted banner read ‘Aaron Elvis, Tribute to the King, Every Friday’.