The Lazarus Mysteries- Omnibus Collection

by Ken Fry

  They knew. They told Ulla it was a monastery built in the fourteenth century, before it was burnt down later in the seventeenth-century.

  “What was it called? She asked.

  “Monasterio de San Vicente de Valencia,” came the reply.

  “Thanks. That’s very helpful,” he paused, “and we can check that out when we get back home.”

  A wind had sprung up. Ladro turned to his left and peered down a vista of fields, wooded slopes, valleys and rocky boulders that stretched out endlessly. More ruins. Just below him stood the remains of an old tower showing the semblance of turrets, the structure surrounded by a cluster of old granite and limestone walls.

  Crash.

  Shouts, screams, blood, and the sounds of steel and war, smashed through his consciousness without warning.

  “Muerte a los Invasores!” Death to the Invaders! His voice rang down through the valley. “Ulla, help!” The veins in his neck bulged as he threw back his head. “Ulla! Ulla! It’s happening again.” His eyes squeezed shut and a violent pain wrung every nerve end in his head. Her arms were around him.

  “Brodie. What is it? Speak to me.” She began shaking his shoulders.

  For a moment, his head flopped but he was aware of full consciousness returning. One mammoth deep breath and stability resumed. He held his arms around his chest.

  “Again ... Oh my God ... The same sort of thing happened at Maria’s place. What the hell’s happening to me?”

  “I’ve no idea, but if you’re okay now, let’s get out of here. It’s getting too spooky.”

  They headed back to the car and Ulla elected to drive. As they got in, Ladro looked back at the scene. It looked quiet and peaceful, yet he couldn’t dismiss the thoughts that he once knew the place and the people involved.

  CHAPTER 29

  Francisco Cortez. There wasn’t much to go on.

  De Witt, installed in a small downtown hotel situated in the Malascaña suburbs of Madrid, attempted to piece together what he could find out about the artist. It was essential to his approach that he gathered as much knowledge as he could about the man. Information enabled him to get inside the artist’s mind and access his emotions; the way he regarded things, the way he observed life. These would give him insight into the artist’s heart ... his soul.

  With only three known works to guide him, anything decent was asking a lot. What does Throgmorton think I am? A miracle worker?

  On the Internet, he’d found a collection of learned papers from a retinue of art historians and professors. To a man, they upheld the viewpoint that Cortez’s works were important, but there needed to be more of them to cement that belief and place Cortez up there with the established masters. De Witt needed to look at the known works up close.

  He gave a small smirk. Another masterpiece could just about shift Cortez up the rankings chart.

  There was a loud rap at the door, and he knew it would be Throgmorton. He had no love for the man. He loathed him, but money was scarce, so he was happy to take the judge’s. Whatever Throgmorton planned to do with the finished work would be his own business.

  “How’s it going, De Witt?”

  “Well enough.” He sensed his dislike of the man was reciprocated.

  “Anything to show me?”

  “Preliminary sketches I’ve worked on from a few of Christ’s miracles. For reasons you wouldn’t understand, I need to see Cortez’s actual paintings. Can you arrange that?” If his jibe had registered, it didn’t show.

  Throgmorton picked up the preliminaries. Going from one to the other, he looked through them several times without comment. “They look good.” He pointed to a sketch of Christ standing outside a rocky outcrop with a large stone rolled to one side. “This one I like.” Emerging from it was the figure of the risen man, Lazarus. “You’ve left the faces blank. Why?”

  “If I thought you would understand, I’d tell you. That is why I asked you to arrange for me to see originals.”

  A flash of annoyance crossed Throgmorton’s face. “It’s done and arranged for tomorrow. Looking at these, I like the Lazarus idea. Let me have three suggestions on that before you start?”

  “I’m not painting anything until I’ve looked more closely at Cortez’s paintings; the way he worked, his brushwork technique, style and structure. I’ll also need to know the type of paints and hand-ground pigments he used. Did he use egg tempera, or did he use glue, honey, milk or water? Did he mix them with a percentage of oil? He may have used specific ingredients, and paints like that must be made since they are not available today. But that’s a bridge to be crossed when I get there. These are things you know nothing of. There are other issues too, but they’re not your concern.”

  De Witt felt an old, familiar emotion take hold of him. He had always likened it to a monk finding God. He felt imbued with the spirit and character of the man he was copying. It was vital to his own work.

  He could see Throgmorton looked out of his depth. He was happy for him to stay that way.

  “You’ll be picked up in the morning at ten and taken to El Prado. I’ve arranged for you to have a private viewing. After one hour there, you’ll be escorted to Valencia to see the third painting in the Cathedral. Please, don’t be late.”

  Throgmorton turned and without another word, walked out. His expression, thought De Witt, looked sour.

  CHAPTER 30

  Evita sat close to Ulla making careful notes of what she was telling her. It was information she knew Raúl, her father, would pass on to Throgmorton. Ulla had discussed this with Brodie and there was to be no mention of visions. The information would be about shootings, similarities in the paintings to the local geography, disused monasteries, and a suggestion that the elusive painting could be close at hand.

  Enough, they had agreed, to whet his appetite.

  At the far end of the Bodega’s library, Brodie had surrounded himself with Cortez’s drawings, manuals and diaries. Lifting his head, he watched Ulla talking to Evita. What struck him was Ulla’s flat response to what had happened to him, not once, but three times. He couldn’t understand that.

  The forlorn monk, the weeping woman, and the lost child.

  He couldn’t tell her. That vision had become like an irritating sore.

  He knew he was far more involved in this affair than he could ever imagine. It had become personal and very strange.

  He glanced at his watch. A little after nine-thirty and Evita had left, leaving Ulla alone, working on the codex. He looked at her ... practical, hard-nosed and fearless. She didn’t like making mistakes and she loathed anyone who pointed them out to her, including him. The recent shootings had unravelled another facet of her complex makeup. She had many talents that shone when analysing or planning a project that required stealth and cunning. He’d watched her many times make tough and perilous decisions in a variety of situations and admired her coolness. Now, he wondered about her present frame of mind, their objective, and the strange effect it was having on her usually sound judgement. The project was not going to plan, and his intuition, which had never failed him over the last fifteen years, said he was going to need her. I’m going to have to tell her all the details of those visions, every detail. Whether she believes it or not doesn’t matter. It’s unsettling me.

  Absorbed in his investigations, Brodie had spent most of his time placing and shuffling piles of pages and notes into a semblance of order. Dates and locations appeared to be random, thrust into the chest and boxes that had been left abandoned without care or feeling. Much of the material related to the running and organisation of the vineyard. Delving deeper he hoped to find a name or reference for the woman who had modelled for the Virgin Mary. There didn’t appear to be any. He turned back to his original pile of documents and received a clue. In the form of a small booklet or diary, it was bound with board, decorated with gold and red inks or paints, and held together with a faded black ribbon.

  He untied it. It was headed, Valencia, Junio MDLV (1555).
/>   The writing, in strong black ink, was in the style and practice of the times. The letters were small and embellished with innumerable long flourishes and swirls. Ladro stared hard at the pages. It was set out in a precise and structured fashion. The margins were decorated with scenes and faces as were the gaps between paragraphs. Even without checking, he knew it had been written by Francisco Cortez. He counted the pages. They amounted to twelve and covered the months of June and July. Ladro read them through several times. An element of sadness ran through it—the sadness of a young boy who was missing home...

  Friday, 3rd June 1555

  Another hot day here and the hills are no longer green, they have turned to brown. Today is my fourteenth birthday and I have received from Señor Méndez a letter from my parents, wishing me an auspicious day. Since papá sent me here, it is hard to believe I have been in Valencia for almost two years. I miss Toledo and my dear mamá and papá. It is worrying that they are both unwell and papá can no longer walk well. I am praying to God to keep them safe.

  Papá’s ring now fits me and I shall be wearing it soon. I have seen Señor Méndez with his and I’m afraid to ask him its meaning, as he had forbidden me to speak of it.

  Life here in Valencia is not bad but it is not home, and I am counting the days to Christmas when I can return home for a while...

  That confirms his birth date at 1541, and the black pattée is linked to all this, Brodie thought. What is Cortez doing in Valencia and who is Méndez? Several pages later, he saw what he was looking for.

  Thursday, 9th June

  Salvador Méndez’s studio has been busy, and he has had many new clients who wanted portraits. He has asked me to watch him and I am to be allowed to finish a small section of a work on the city tailor, Miguel Ribera. It is a high honour. I hope one day I can be allowed to assist on his more important works.

  Here, Brodie struggled to read the writing that tapered off the end of the page.

  Well, he thought to himself. He’s apprenticed in the studio of Salvador Méndez, he misses home, his parents are unwell, and he has ambitions. The next entry transfixed him.

  Sunday, 19th June 1555

  ...and prayed in my favourite small chapel in the west wing of the Cathedral. What has happened, I cannot speak of to anyone!

  At first, God was not with me, and then He came to me. I saw Juan de Borgoña and he was looking into my head and pointing to his fresco, The Raising of Lazarus at Toledo’s Cathedral. A terrible heat seized me. I dared not open my eyes and my body trembled. I heard the voice of God or was it Borgoña? It said, “Francisco, do not be afraid. You know of me. You shall be the heir to Lazarus. When, it cannot be said, but be prepared.”

  I saw the fresco clearly and then the vision vanished. I opened my eyes and it was as if nothing had happened. I was still there in the chapel. Inwardly, I am joyous but nervous … because I believe all this. O Joy. My vision remains alive. I can speak to no one.

  I was preparing dishes for evening supper when Señor Méndez returned from Toledo. He had been to see the Duke of Alba for a commission. He looked tired. He gave me instructions concerning what items I was to collect from our suppliers tomorrow. He sat down to eat and told me something most strange had happened at the Cathedral.

  “A wall in the Sala Capitular had collapsed. One of Borgoña’s frescos was destroyed.”

  “Which one?” I asked. I confess to feeling startled.

  “The Raising of Lazarus. Unless a miracle occurs, it’s irreplaceable.” He looked at me in a very odd way.

  “It fell down?”

  “Yes, it collapsed in an instant.” Without another word, Méndez kissed the black cross of his ring and walked out, not finishing his supper.

  I felt no shock or surprise.

  CHAPTER 31

  Two monasteries, one in ruins outside Valencia, and the other sited at Guadamur, now the home of the Condesa, matched the dates mentioned in the Bodega’s archives. Ladro was pleased at their progress and suggested they eat out at a restaurant that evening. Additionally, he had discovered the rough date that Borgoña’s fresco of Lazarus had met its fate. The information was exciting and needed to be discussed away from their usual rooms. Scientific proof didn’t exist, but he was convinced that another painting existed.

  At a restaurant in the older part of town, they shared a large plate of paella with two glasses of white Rioja. Ulla leant forward.

  “I’m beginning to believe this fable. There seem to be too many things that are starting to link up.”

  “True. We need to discover the events surrounding the pregnant woman.” Ladro paused, pushing a piece of squid to one side of the plate. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What?”

  “That ruined monastery ... I saw and heard something else.”

  Ulla stared into him. “What was that?”

  He shivered. “I saw the pregnant woman, and a man dressed as a monk wearing a tabard with a black cross. They were crying and reaching out for each other. There was an abandoned child on the ground. A building was on fire. It was the monastery we saw.”

  “Carry on.” Ulla sounded uncertain.

  Ladro stared down at the table top. “There was a voice.”

  “A voice?”

  “Yes, it was a woman’s. She told me I had the key to this. Please don’t ask me what because I haven’t a clue what’s going on here.”

  She placed her hand on his. “Brodie, anybody else telling me this and I would have asked them to get their head examined. I believe you. I shouldn’t, but I do. I think something is staring us in the face and we just aren’t seeing it.”

  “Thanks, I think the same. Let’s get back to the hotel and sort out what to do next.”

  §

  They left the restaurant as that part of Toledo was shutting up for the night. Doors and shutters were being bolted. Darkness encompassed the narrow, cobbled lane that led back in the direction of the hotel. Nothing stirred.

  In front of them rose an incline where a church had been built to serve the needs of the Cathedral many years ago. It was closed tight but the gardens remained open, offering a route directly towards the hotel. Ladro propelled Ulla in through the gateway, as a small moon broke through dark scudding clouds to illuminate the walkway.

  Ulla whispered. “You know we’re being followed?”

  “Of course. That’s why we’re going through here.” He half turned and saw a figure duck behind a large tree. “Through here and keep walking. Don’t wait for me.” He slid behind a large broken headstone shielded by a mass of dripping moss and waited.

  The man passed the covered headstone and Ladro leapt forward and jammed his fist hard into his soft stomach. He sent another blow to the man’s jaw, crashing him to the ground and sending a pistol spinning across the pathway.

  Ulla came running towards them.

  He hauled the man up and inspected him. He was short, with a dark stubble and a shaven head. At the same time, he booted the weapon out of sight. Ulla didn’t hesitate. Her Glock was in her hand and she pressed it hard against the man’s temple. He looked dazed and Ladro patted him down for any other hidden weapon. He removed a flick-knife that had been secreted beneath his jacket. Ulla shoved him hard and he doubled over the headstone.

  “Who are you working for?”

  No reply.

  “You speak English?”

  The man shook his head, gasping for breath.

  “Ulla, make him understand.”

  She cocked the hammer on the Glock.

  Ladro saw the man tense as the message registered. “Throgmorton?” he demanded.

  The man’s voice quavered. “Si, Señor, Si. Throgmorton.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  Ulla pushed harder with the barrel of the gun.

  His reply was quick. “Madrid. Hotel Bella Vista.”

  A gunshot sent them ducking as a bullet thudded into the trunk of the tree in front of them. Both Ladr
o and Ulla dived. Ladro saw a darkened figure standing forty metres away, half leaning against the arched porch behind them. Another shot whistled off the headstone just above their prisoner’s head. Ulla jumped to one side and released her hold on him.

  The next bullet cracked into the headstone. This time the man got to his feet and bolted into the darkness. That had the desired result as Ulla took aim and cracked off two rapid rounds in the direction of the assailant. The shooter didn’t wait. Ladro grabbed the Glock from Ulla and moved in the direction of the fleeing figure when he saw him jump over a small supporting wall and head in the direction of the exit. There was a six-foot wall with a matching drop that led into the car park.

  Ladro didn’t stop to think. He paused and pumped off three more shots that he heard slice into woodwork and knew he’d missed his target. The man was still running. He saw him vault the wall and drop down on the other side and heard the revving of a motorbike a second after. Their prisoner was on it. He skidded it around in a furious circle of white dust as the shooter sprang onto the back.

  Another shot sent up a burst of sparks ricocheting off a nearby metal post.

  The bike roared off avoiding the narrow entrance and zigzagged down another narrow street and into the darkness.

  If the roar of a motorcycle and gunshots were unfamiliar in this part of Toledo it didn’t show. Not a light came on. Ladro was in no mood to wait around. Ulla was right beside him.

  “I wouldn’t have missed” she said.

  “That was what I was worried about. Then we’d have some explaining to do.”

  “So now we know where we’re at with Sir Max.”

  “Too right. The stakes are raised. I don’t think he wanted them to shoot at us, but meat heads are the same the world over. We could go after him”