The Lazarus Mysteries- Omnibus Collection

by Ken Fry

  She made no move towards him and he had to make the journey to her as she emitted a thin smile and shook his hand. She barely made contact, as if she were doing him a favour, and withdrew her fingers as fast as she was able.

  “Sir Maxwell, I would like to speak to you about a certain matter, but not here.” Her request sounded like a summons, and her voice, with its Spanish accent, had the texture of ice about to crack.

  Before Throgmorton had a chance to speak, Urbanek interjected, “The Condesa has heard that where others fail you can often succeed. She is on a spiritual quest and ...”

  The Condesa waved her hand at him and stopped him from explaining further. “Let Sir Maxwell speak.”

  Urbanek’s eyes betrayed his minor embarrassment.

  What Urbanek had said was not the sort of statement he wished to hear bandied around. Throgmorton’s response was cautious. “The Condesa must not believe everything she hears. Often, anything said about anybody is exaggerated, don’t you find?”

  “I don’t have time to check all the details of what I hear about people. I am far too busy.”

  “And what keeps you busy, My Illustrious Lady?” He saw the momentary lift of her eyebrows at his correct address in Spanish.

  “I’m conducting research on the impact of religious art on the human psyche. How it can alter our perceptions and viewpoints. It also covers the realm of miracles. Do you believe in miracles?” Her inquiring tone had the warmth of a glacier.

  “I know nothing about those sorts of things.”

  Urbanek, attempting to restore some worth, explained. “But you do, Sir Maxwell.” He turned to the Condesa. “He told me he has a portfolio of important Byzantine and Renaissance religious artefacts.” He turned back to Throgmorton. “Isn’t that right, Sir Maxwell?”

  Throgmorton’s insides cringed and before he could speak, she asked, “Are you a collector, scholar, or both?”

  “More of a collector, you might say. I’m just an interested layman. I enjoy art and fine things. I find them rewarding, enjoyable. Don’t you?”

  “So, it’s just for pleasure that you acquire things. That was not what I was hoping to hear, but it will do. I will contact you very soon. You will excuse me?”

  “A remarkable woman,” Urbanek observed as he watched her walk back into the ballroom.

  Feeling as if he’d just been dismissed like an errant waiter, Throgmorton ignored the Public Prosecutor’s observation. He agreed she had quality, as had many other people he knew. Not many people could treat him the way she had with so little demonstrable effort. Their next meeting would be interesting.

  CHAPTER 4

  Florence, Italy

  The present day…

  Overlooking the River Arno, Ulla Stuart sat alone drinking coffee beneath a large red umbrella at a pavement café. The area was thick with tourists, but she had a distant view of the iconic dome of Il Duomo which helped soothe her irritation. She’d been waiting forty minutes for Brodie.

  Four days previously, a small but very fine marble and ivory statuette of The Death of Remus by Bernini had been ‘liberated’ from the premises of Count Luigi Falcone di Milani. It had been stolen a century previously by the Count’s ancestor. She and Brodie had secretly returned it to its rightful home at the estate of Mario Finelli. Finelli could trace his lineage back to Giuliani Finelli. Giuliani had been a student of Bernini and had worked with him on producing the piece. As Bernini’s patron for the work had died before it was finished, Bernini had presented it to Finelli, in whose family it had remained for centuries until it was stolen.

  The humidity and its accompanying flies didn’t help her patience. To help calm down, she watched the sun casting a thousand reflections across the surface of the waters. It never failed to fascinate her. Every so often, she looked around the café, across the other tables and back down the aisle of the interior, but the place looked deserted. Brodie hadn’t appeared yet, and true to form, he was running late.

  She activated her mobile to check for messages; there were none. Her nimble thumbs and fingers began tapping out a text, “Where are you?” She paused before sending it, as when she turned her head, she saw him talking to a waiter in the foyer. The first thing she saw was the pony tail, and then the craggy, life-worn lines of his lived-in face as the waiter pointed in her direction. Brodie smiled and began walking towards her. She ignored the small wave. He was dressed in his usual fashion: T-shirt, a safari style jacket, jeans, and desert boots.

  “Where’ve you been?” She tried to keep the snap out of her voice. “I’ve gone through two large cappuccinos waiting here, looking like a tart trying to hook a client. Don’t tell me you couldn’t find it because you’ve been here before.”

  He gave the suggestion of a smirk but looked apologetic. “Ulla, sorry for being so late. I had too much to do. I asked the waiter if there was a single woman here, possibly looking irritable, and staring into a mobile phone. He pointed to you.”

  Brodie never failed to disarm her, and she gave a weak smile. He was of Scottish-Italian descent, aged forty-three and wasn’t tall, just five feet ten inches. At thirty-three years of age, she hadn’t let their ten-year age difference become an issue. He had many surprising talents. The one she admired most ... his paintings and drawings. With several exhibitions and reviews to his credit, it fitted in well with their line of work. He had often said that he’d missed his true calling in life.

  She too had a Scottish connection and believed that was part of the attraction between them. Her father, an oil worker from Aberdeen, had married her Ukrainian mother. Brodie had told her that she had that indefinable Russian beauty about her. Her striking blond hair, green eyes, and a figure no woman would be ashamed of, were attributes she gave little thought to. She met Brodie ten years ago by pure chance, or so he thought. In truth, Ulla had planned it.

  Brodie was on her list. She’d spotted him on several occasions in the Renaissance Room at the Stephen Chan Library in New York. She soon got talking. He’d told her he was doing research for a client and ran a small fine art and antiques agency. When he asked her what she was doing, she’d replied, “Looking for where I can find something to steal.” She still remembered his shocked expression.

  “You must be joking.”

  “Not really.” She’d offered her hand. “My name’s Ulla.” He had qualities that attracted her.

  Later that night, in bed together, she recalled his reaction when she’d asked him what he thought about making a living from something more than just research.

  “Clandestine search and rescue, Brodie. Putting things back where they rightfully belong or removing them from those who shouldn’t have them or don’t deserve them. Honest robbery.”

  “What? I wouldn’t know where to start, and besides, we’d end up in jail.”

  “With our knowledge, we can access areas others wouldn’t even know about.” She saw the look on his face. “I can see you think I’m joking but wait until we get back to the UK and I’ll show you how easy it is, believe me.”

  Two weeks later, they met, and she stayed with him in Harrogate. Brodie had allowed her to persuade him to embark on what she had described as an enriching evening stroll. He looked at her delicate face; it had a fearlessness that shone with what he could only put down to her Ukrainian blood. Her beauty was enigmatic. He knew now she was a risk taker, but never impulsive. It hadn’t taken long to understand that every decision she made was an exercise in studied patience leading to the desired result.

  Twenty-minutes later, they had strolled casually by the outskirts of the black expanse of The Stray, close to the large houses that bordered it. He knew what was about to happen and he wished he wasn’t there, but to walk away would have made him look stupid. She stopped outside a large darkened house and moved into the blackness enveloping it.

  “This way,” she whispered, “follow me.”

  He followed her, aware of his rising excitement. There was nobody home and access was simple. Using a
flashlight, she manoeuvred around the house until in the bedroom she found a bedside table. It contained jewellery and the beam from the torch caused the gems to sparkle.

  “I’m not a thief, but it won’t do harm to let them know we’ve called.”

  He remembered she’d taken one single pearl earring and left the drawer wide open. She’d come alive, overflowing with energy. Just being able to do it, the risks involved, gave her joy like nothing else she knew.

  He’d been following her through windows and doors ever since. He’d never met a woman like her. She came to life when presented with a risky challenge. His concern was how to control her unbridled passion for the extraordinary.

  He leant over and kissed her on the cheek as she took yet another sip of lukewarm coffee.

  “I thought Florence might be a break from the last six months of hectic Milan and Rome,” he said, “but looking around here, I don’t think that’s quite correct.” He indicated the endless procession of cars and scooters passing by. “What’re you reading there?” He pointed to a small clip of papers she’d pulled from a large plastic UPS envelope. It was addressed to them both; to their hotel, care of their small but successful company which they had named – not without a certain irony – ‘Gordian Knots.’

  The company’s purpose was primarily art research, which allowed them to produce low budget TV documentaries, investigating and seeking out the lost, the stolen, and the unbelievable. Moving up from small freelance assignments, they’d pooled their expertise and established a first-class reputation in finding long-lost paintings, gold, porcelain, jewellery and other items. The potential was endless. It also gave them privileged access to their true and secret passion, clandestine theft on behalf of genuine clients ... mainly.

  “Our next project perhaps?”

  “What is it then?”

  “It arrived by courier when you were out this morning. How we were found, God knows.”

  “Well, who’s it from?” He tried to see, but she wouldn’t let him.

  CHAPTER 5

  Toledo, Spain

  1555 A.D.

  Francisco lay awake, but his eyes were closed. He thought back to the event in the Cathedral two years ago. He’d told nobody apart from his father, Diego. To do otherwise seemed unworthy.

  His father was a short, dark, strong man who always said what was on his mind. At forty-two years of age, he was not known for expressing emotion. Yet, when Francisco told him, at first faltering, and then a second time at his father’s demand, he remembered his startled expression. He had said little but looked grave. From the narrowing of his eyes, Francisco thought his father looked like he knew something ... something he couldn’t reveal. His father swore him to secrecy, told him to keep the event to himself because others wouldn’t understand. Francisco kept that secret. He’d revisited the Cathedral many times attempting to recapture the vision … but it eluded him. It would not return. His memory of it had begun to fade as his father said it would.

  He’d continued to paint, attempting to capture and portray the essence of his vision through art. He never could. His other works were admired by those who saw them, who said they were dazzling and that he had a natural gift. For one so young, he was considered a marvel. His portraits and market scenes were only surpassed by his depictions of the healing miracles of Christ. Despite what he heard from admirers, he knew he needed to learn more about technique and the subtleties of paint, tone and texture. He had little satisfaction in his accomplishments.

  That afternoon, Diego was preparing his schedule for the next day’s work. His vineyards produced fine wines and they had helped him prosper. His wines were sought after, and visitors were frequent. Macaria, his wife, was kept busy preparing small meals and drinks to keep potential buyers happy. She was six years younger than Diego, and the daughter of a prosperous wool merchant from Toledo.

  Francisco sat outside and thought about his life. It was comfortable, and his father continued to send him to Toledo to be schooled in Latin, mathematics and languages. He wanted Francisco to go to University, become a lawyer, and make a success of his life. Francisco’s passion, though, was his art. He found the scholarly processes of formal study restrictive, stiff, and joyless. Pencils, charcoal, paints and brushes gave him freedom … an almost guilty pleasure. The last thing he wanted was the stifling life of a lawyer.

  He began sketching several versions of a gnarled pair of hands reaching out towards a bunch of grapes, complete with vine leaves. His father stood close by. Talking to him with serious gestures stood a tall, charismatic looking man in a black wrap-around cloak. He wore a large, black gathered velvet hat, braided with gold thread across a small peak beneath which shone dark kind eyes. Every so often, the conversation would stop, and they would look across at Francisco. Sometime later they walked over to him.

  “Francisco, this is Señor Salvador Méndez.” His father gestured for him to stand.

  Francisco stood and extended his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Señor.” He grimaced at the strength of the man’s handshake.

  “The feeling is mutual, Francisco. I’ve heard much of you.” He looked at his drawing. Méndez’s smile revealed crooked teeth with a prominent chip in the front.

  Francisco noticed a large gold ring set on his finger, with a bright, black emerald cut into an eight-pointed cross. “Your work is exceptional.” Without another word, he turned, placed a friendly arm around his father’s shoulders and walked off with him.

  Two hours later, the sunlight had clouded over. Francisco had had enough and as ever, was dissatisfied with his efforts. He packed up his materials and went inside. Macaria and Diego, both wearing serious expressions, were sitting side by side behind the large oak dining table. Señor Méndez had gone. His father pointed to the vacant chair opposite them.

  “Francisco, we need to speak to you.”

  As he sat, his mother reached for his hand and squeezed it gently.

  “What is it?” He couldn’t prevent the concern in his voice. He rubbed a knuckle across the side of his mouth.

  His father placed his hand on top of his; an unusual gesture. Francisco experienced a flush of embarrassment.

  He began to explain. “God has whispered to you, Francisco. He gave you a vision and a rare and wonderful gift, which would be wasted as a lawyer. Your mother and I are agreed. In life, we get few opportunities and you now have one that we hope you will appreciate. Señor Salvador Méndez, whom you met earlier, is a highly-regarded art master, and has received numerous commissions from the Pope himself and from our King. I showed him more of your work. He was impressed and has agreed to take you in, to study and develop your talent as an apprentice at his studio in Valencia.”

  §

  A week later, his mother handed him one last bag to place in the cart as his father secured various small chests and a larger trunk for the journey. Francisco could feel tears in his eyes as he gave her a final embrace, before she turned with a cry and ran back into the house.

  His father held up his hand. “Don’t cry. It won’t be long before we see you again. Trust and take note of what Señor Méndez tells you. There’s more to him than being an artist. He has God’s blessing, as have you.” He handed Francisco a small package. “Take this, it is now yours, and God speed.”

  The wagoner flicked his whip and the cart moved off in a swirl of reddish dust. Once out of sight of the figure of his waving father, Francisco allowed himself to sob. When he had exhausted his sadness, he looked up at the wispy stretches of clouds. In the distance, reaching out to touch them, the towering facade of Toledo’s Cathedral. He picked up his father’s package and unwrapped it. What he saw caused him to gasp. There was a note in his father’s handwriting, which simply said, Méndez knows of Lazarus. With it was a small gold ring inset with a white stone on which lay a black emerald cut into the shape of an eight-pointed cross.

  CHAPTER 6

  Heiligenblut, Austria

  The present day…

 
Putting down his magazine, the guard pushed his beer out of sight under the shelving. The sound of an approaching car on the twisting road leading up to the Condesa’s Austrian home, alerted him to check his visitor file. There was only one name on it.

  Sir Maxwell Throgmorton.

  From his cabin, he watched the sleek blue Bentley roll to a halt and stop outside the massive ornate iron gates. He stepped outside to check as a tinted window lowered. A face with a head of thick silvery hair appeared.

  “Sir Maxwell Throgmorton to see the Condesa Maria Francisca de Toledo.”

  The guard nodded. “I will need ID please, sir.”

  Throgmorton raised his eyes upwards. “Did she not let you know?”

  “She did, but whoever it is sir, I am required to check before I log you in and open the gates.”

  “It’s not a problem. Driving licence okay?”

  The guard took the licence and scanned it on his system. He handed it back. “That’s fine. You’ll find the visitors’ car park in front of the chalet. I’ll alert her that you’ve arrived. She’ll be on the steps to meet you. If not, please wait in your car until she arrives.”

  Throgmorton wound up the window, not enjoying the smell of alcohol on the guard’s breath. Driving slowly in, he checked for hidden security cameras. He could see none. The four and a half hours drive from Vienna had been more relaxing than he dared hope. There should be some reward for his perseverance.