by Ken Fry
Her phone call had been more of a summons than a social invitation. He couldn’t refuse. There was something about her that intrigued him. He hadn’t forgotten the way she’d dismissed him at the ball.
The car park had the only visible camera, which was mounted on a steel support above the circular layout. It was positioned in front of the decorative three storey chalet, a luxurious eighteenth-century wooden structure with an ornate scalloped fascia ablaze with Austrian and Spanish flags. He eyed it over. Hardly modest and I expect it’s not her only cottage.
§
10 mg of morphine sulphate slid down the syringe, through the needle, and into her outstretched arm, as she watched his arrival on the CCTV screen. She leaned her head back and released a low sigh, then took a deep breath and stood. The pain was constant and the only thing that masked it was morphine. It didn’t take long to begin its work.
Sir Maxwell Throgmorton could be her only hope.
§
He saw her on the top step, dressed in black from head to toe; statuesque, severely elegant, and her dark hair in the same tight bun he remembered her wearing before. He could only wonder what she wanted to see him for. She ignored his outstretched hand but with a small sweep of her arm, ushered him into the main part of the spacious chalet, whose expansive windows offered a spectacular view of the Grossglockner Mountains. Around the walls were packed countless volumes of books on the afterlife, near death experiences, miracles, psychology, ancient and modern medicines, the power of the mind, holy relics and religions.
“Sir Maxwell, you are welcome and thank you for coming at such short notice. I trust you had a pleasant journey. This part of the world can be quite spectacular.” Her voice hadn’t lost the iciness of their previous encounter.
He stared into her impassive brown eyes and detected a moment’s uncertainty. “Yes, it was better than I imagined. Thank you for inviting me. Please call me Max. What shall I call you?”
“You may call me Maria.”
“Maria.” He pronounced it as if he were chewing a sweet. He lifted his head slightly. “Do I detect the aroma of tea brewing?”
“You do indeed. It has been an old family custom to greet guests with tea rather than alcohol. I trust you approve?” She indicated a chair near a small log fire where a silver art nouveau tea service was placed on a matching tray. “Please sit. How would you prefer your tea?”
“Black would be fine.”
“Likewise.”
She sat down, and he noticed the slight wince as she leant forward to pour from the teapot.
“Maria, I’m not one for small talk. It seems improbable that after meeting me for a few minutes over a week ago, you just want the pleasure of my company.”
“Max,” she hesitated as if the familiarity of using the first name of a virtual stranger was an anathema to her. “I did say at the time that I wanted to discuss something with you. You’ve obviously forgotten.” Her mouth had tightened as if she had tasted something unpleasant.
He sipped his tea and paused. “Not entirely. I just wanted to make it easier for you. I didn’t drive over four-hundred kilometres just to sip your excellent tea. I think you’d better tell me.”
“Of course.”
Throgmorton sensed she’d be economical about the real reason, but he’d have to go along with it, especially as there had to be money involved. She looked up at him with an odd expression, and again, he saw her suppressed flinch.
“I’ve been researching into the effect of religion and its art on the mind and body, especially where miracles or healing appears to have occurred. I have studied this subject for many years and I’m now finishing my fifth book on the subject, The Healing Power of Sacred Art. As part of my study, I’ve travelled around the world and seen many inexplicable occurrences. I’ve seen stigmata appear by gazing on the supposed true cross, people unable to walk begin walking after manifesting hysteria in front of images of Christ. On that level, there isn’t much I haven’t seen over the years, including weeping and bleeding Madonnas whose excretions could supposedly heal any known illness or condition. Much of it has been fraudulent, but on the odd occasions, no explanation can be offered.”
Throgmorton remained impassive and wished she’d get to the point. It was like a junior barrister doing a long-winded summing up. He poured himself another cup of tea. “Max, I can trace my ancestry farther back than the thirteenth century. My family came from an aristocratic and wealthy lineage. This is my third home.” She waved her arm expansively. “I have one in Toledo, this one, and another in Zurich.”
She fixed him with a blank stare. It was then he saw the yellowness of her skin that even expertly applied makeup failed to hide.
“I am a close friend of your ex-wife, Lady Ruth. As you know, she lives in Zurich. You needn’t know how and when we met, but with what she told me, plus Herr Urbanek’s input, who incidentally has represented me on occasions, I arrived at the conclusion that you might be of assistance. I hope I’m not going to be disappointed.”
“You know Ruth. That’s very strange, but now I know our meeting was more deliberate than I realised. As far as your anticipated disappointment is concerned, there’s no way of knowing unless you tell me what it is you have in mind.” He shifted uncomfortably. What does she know? There was no way he was going to allow himself to ask questions about Ruth or show any sign of surprise. Just what has Ruth been saying? He attempted to look unperturbed as he drummed his fingers on the table top. At the same time, he noticed her sharp intake of breath, her eyes closing for a moment before a look of calm relaxation crossed her face. She’s in pain.
“Your reputation, Max, no matter how much you’ve attempted to disguise it, is well known in certain quarters. You’re regarded as a person who has fallen from grace, but has the ability to influence, find things that shouldn’t be found, and lose things if necessary. Am I making myself clear?”
“Crystal.” He couldn’t suppress his tight smile. Flattery, even if convoluted, was music to his ears. The way the Condesa was handling this, suggested that her discretion would be paramount.
“I need something found… a painting. It should rightfully be mine and belongs also to Toledo. All I can tell you is the artist’s name. Francisco Cortez. The work was painted in the latter part of the sixteenth century. I need it for my research, you understand?”
Her momentary eye contact told him that she may be good at being a Condesa, but like many felons who’d stood before him in the dock, she wasn’t good at lying.
“All relevant information is contained in this file.” She reached down beside her chair and produced a dark blue leather-bound binder. “To explain it all would take too long and I’m feeling very tired right now. Please take this with you to study.”
He took the portfolio from her. It looked and felt expensive, secured with a decorative solid silver clasp. “What next?”
“An intriguing question, Sir Maxwell. I’m hoping you can get the wheels turning on this. Your skills in sifting through evidence and discovering truths are, I’ve been told, of legal legend. I’m giving you the opportunity to resurrect those skills. You know people who could help, perhaps people you shouldn’t know. To be frank, I don’t care about who you mix with. I want that painting and I don’t want to have to wait too long. Before you ask, because I find it distasteful to discuss, you will find in the dossier details of money, fees, expenses and commissions. You’ll find there’s more than enough allocated to support a third party, should you require it. In your own time, read what is there and then contact me directly. Now, forgive me, I must ask you to leave. I am far too tired. If you wish to stay, there are good hotels in town or perhaps you want to drive back.” She stood and indicated the main door where he had first entered.
Throgmorton again experienced the sensation of dismissal, like dirt being wiped off her shoes. His angry look, the vein twitching on the side of his head, if she noticed at all, was ignored. Within minutes, he found himself alone on the outsid
e steps and walking back to the car park. He decided to leave the area and find himself a place to eat or stay on the way back to Vienna. In his own good time, he would study her file. Her arrogance had irked. Right now, his overriding wish was that somehow, he could engineer her come-uppance.
§
She watched him drive away, deciding that former High Court judge or not, he was still a slithery reptile. She balanced that observation by telling herself that reptiles were excellent at getting under closed doors. Her pain had diminished, leaving her with a yawning tiredness characteristic of her morphine use. Diagnosed with Stage 11A pancreatic cancer, barring a miracle, doctors gave her a twenty per cent chance of survival over the next five years. Having thought that she was impervious to infections and illness, the prognosis had given her a profound shock.
Since that date, her research assumed a more serious aspect. What had been a harmless, light hearted investigation into charlatans, fraudsters and missing relics, had now turned into a quest to find a genuine symbol, artefact, or whatever could possibly hold the power to cure her of the all-consuming cancer. She’d tried many prayers, reliquaries, relics like the Virgin’s Veil, sacred sites including Lourdes … all without success.
Recently, while trawling through the 15, 000 records of the Institución Columbina in the Cathedral of Seville, she had come across a reference to the artist Francisco Cortez. It was simple. It stated that he came from Toledo, and that he was an apprentice of Salvador Méndez, and his works were highly regarded. Only three were known to exist. Two could be found at the El Prado museum in Madrid, and the other at the Cathedral-Basilica of the Assumption of Our Lady of Valencia, otherwise known as the Cathedral of the Holy Chalice. It was stated that the true Chalice of Christ displayed there was the one used at the Last Supper.
There were rumours of other paintings, but one had been regarded as his most influential. It was said to have been painted after he had a profound religious experience in the Toledo Cathedral. It was believed to have miraculous healing properties. Those who touched it or gazed upon it in sincere repentance, would be cured. It had never been found, nor was the title ever known. The records indicated that Cortez and his painting had vanished in mysterious circumstances and were never seen again.
Her first reaction had been one of annoyed astonishment. She had lived in Toledo most of her life and had never heard of him. With her condition, she couldn’t prevent the thought that this was too much of a coincidence. The two works held at the El Prado were not on display. They had been stored. Using her title of Condesa, it hadn’t been difficult to persuade the museum to allow her access. She remembered the Curator walking her down a cold and spiralling staircase into an immense space, like a warehouse where rack upon rack of paintings, no longer fashionable or showing their years, were stored for inspection and restoration. The Curator explained that humidity was always a problem and temperatures had to remain constant. Some paintings reacted badly to light and could only be shown for limited periods of time. Cortez’s paintings had their own resting place. The Curator had written its location on a large white card taken from the database. He had found them without difficulty. With care, he slid them from their bay, placing them next to each other as if he were holding a new born baby. Both works were of identical proportions and framed in heavy gilt surrounds. She gasped at her first glance. They were like nothing she had seen before. They looked like superior amalgamations of El Greco, Correggio and Murillo.
Both depicted healing miracles of Christ. One showed a leper and the other of a herd of swine being driven over a cliff top. For their time, they had an almost abstract quality; swirling dark and light colours, blacks and blazing reds, with suggestions of triumphant yet penitent figures emerging from the swirling eddy of colours.
“Wonderful. Oh, they’re just wonderful.” She experienced the strangest emotion, a feeling of disembodiment, a spark of rare happiness. It went as quickly as it had come.
“Yes, they’re truly superb,” agreed the Curator, holding them at arm’s length, “and they are due for showing in another two years. I think then we shall see a reappraisal of Cortez. The shame is that after he vanished, it was said that his works were destroyed in a large monastery fire. But nobody can verify that. According to stories, he apparently thought his life was unworthy, and later rode off into the desert and disappeared forever. Sadly, nothing has ever been found.”
The Condesa nodded. The Curator had confirmed her findings. She took several photographs of the works. The images she had seen and the story surrounding Cortez haunted her for the rest of the day. They caused her to tremble. She tried looking at other works, but Cortez kept flooding into her mind.
Her intuition sent her an invitation.
Later, she booked a flight from Madrid to Valencia, before her scheduled return to Zurich.
§
The busy streets of Valencia had lost little of their ancient history and the city remained wrapped in the atmosphere of its past. It wasn’t long before she found herself in Our Lady Square, leading into the Cathedral’s entrance at the Apostle’s Gate overlooked by the medieval Transept Tower.
Placing a black lace mantilla on her head, she stepped inside. The cool quietness propelled her into a mood of reverence. She wished to speak to nobody, not even for information. She was on a mission, and something told her she would find what she was looking for.
She was alone. Her footsteps rang across the flagstones, and as if pulled by an unseen power, she proceeded up the nave, passing panels by Jacomart depicting Saint Benedict and Ildephonsus without giving them a second glance. Then, she remembered. Stopping at the small arched portal of a side chapel, she turned to look. It contained a confessional, chairs, and a central altar surmounted by a crucified Christ wrought in silver and wood above which hung a painting.
This is Cortez. I know it is.
Walking in, she knelt, crossed herself, recited the Hail Mary three times, and the Apostles Creed at speed, as if the Cathedral was ablaze. She was anxious to inspect the painting. Leaning forward, she needed no telling that Cortez had painted it. The unusual style, the swirling blend of colours suggesting the anguished expressions of Christ and of Holy Mary, were unlike anything that came before. It gave confirmation of her search, and she knew she’d been led there. Her gaze wandered across the picture for minutes on end. She still had the photographs she had taken on her tablet. One thing had heightened her curiosity. Alongside a small signature was the even smaller but unmistakeable shape of a black eight-pointed cross…
… followed by the letters KORL.
She sat in the chapel for over an hour, alone with her thoughts and emotions. There had been no miraculous cure of her condition. That remained the same. It didn’t surprise her. Yet, her hope had been ignited. Never before could she recall feeling like this. She believed she’d been guided to this place. Any doubts she’d had about miracles, and she had investigated hundreds, could now be disregarded. That she had been led by Cortez to the same sacred place where Christ’s Chalice was also stored … was no accident. That alone was a minor miracle. Her conviction had increased that Cortez, in some way, held the answer. The enigma of his last missing work called her.
Where is it?
It would be found. She believed that, and that a cure for her would be there. The play of synchronicity reverberated too strongly for recent events to be mere chance.
Subsequent research had ended in a cul-de-sac. She no longer had the strength to travel far or make aggressive investigations or harass people. Apart from her doctors, the only person who knew of her condition was Lady Ruth Throgmorton. It was one afternoon in a Zurich restaurant along the Langstrasse that Maria had confided in Ruth. She had told her of her recent disappointment. She had hit a brick wall and was slowly losing whatever hope she had of a cure for her cancer. She needed to find the painting.
That was how, in strictest confidence, she had learned of Sir Maxwell; his past and what he was capable of.
CHAPTER 7
Hotel Machiavelli,
Florence
The present time…
“HIM.” Brodie gave a snort of derision. “The dodgy judge ... friends in low places guaranteed.”
“What are you on about?” Ulla’s brow creased into a frown.
“Some years back, there were strong whispers about him, his past, his criminal mates, and a major storm he was involved in with government ministers. There were allegations of corrupt deals concerning the building of prisons and filling them with over-sentenced offenders. He wriggled out of it and retired early. What does he want?”
“Here, read this.” Ulla took a sip of her cappuccino and thrust the letter into his hands.
There is a painting I have been asked to locate by a titled and very wealthy lady whom I now represent. Sadly, I lack the expertise to do so but she has made provisions for me to hire a third party. I am hoping that with your vast and undoubted expertise you may care to fulfil that role.
A location fee of £200,000 sterling is envisaged. On top of this all expenses will be paid. In anticipation of your acceptance I have enclosed two open-ended first-class air tickets to fly to Vienna.
On meeting, full details will be given. Please inform me of your intended arrival.
Truly,
Sir Maxwell Throgmorton
Ulla pulled the tickets out of the package and waved them in his face. “Look, we’ve nothing on at the moment, and at the very worst, it’s a free weekend in Vienna.”
“No, not that crooked bastard. Forget it.” He screwed up the letter and jammed it back into the envelope.
“You getting cold feet?”
“I can see what’s going to happen. We find whatever it is, and he steals it off us in some way and then offers it back to his sponsor at a hugely inflated price. Ulla, we both know how this game works, we’ve seen it a thousand times.”
