The Lazarus Mysteries- Omnibus Collection

by Ken Fry

  “And we’ve decided to go after him, haven’t we?” Ulla nudged Brodie and at the same time patted the gun hidden at the back of her jacket.

  Ladro said nothing, his face expressionless.

  CHAPTER 34

  El Desierto de Tabernas

  30 Kilometres North of Almeria

  Spain, 1562 A.D.

  Tight leather thongs securing his wrists to the saddle cut into his flesh as the mule the monks led behind them swayed across the rock-strewn terrain. For two days and nights, Francisco, Brother Francis, had silently endured the chaffing torment as blood seeped from beneath his restraints.

  Blood of Christ, cleanse me.

  Not a morsel of food, but only a sip or two of water had passed his lips since leaving the monastery. Not a word had been spoken. His penance, forty silent days and nights in the Tabernas Desert had begun.

  The heat’s shimmer distorted the distant hills, and blackened shrubs bent low in despair towards the barren sand.

  Without a sound, the three monks came to a halt and one stepped forward, and with a few slices of a large knife, cut the thongs that held him to the mule. Francisco slid to the ground and collapsed, his fingers digging into the sand and grit. Three brown bundles held together with drawstrings were thrown in front of him, together with two large gourds of water.

  “God save you,” whispered the man who had cut the thongs. He crossed himself, turned, and with the other two, set off in the direction they had come.

  Francisco clutched the crucifix on his rosary and muttered three Ave Marias. Not a cloud could be seen. It was high noon, and in all directions, life wilted in a shimmering heat. Any sensible living creature hid in their burrows or sheltered beneath rocks. His sandaled feet scuffed into the reddish dirt, careful to avoid the numerous razor-sharp flint stones that stretched out forever. He began moving toward an overhanging outcrop of rocks.

  His bundles contained a few small loaves to be used only at his personal mass, a crucifix, a stout leather whip embossed with metal studs for self-flagellation, and an illustrated text on repentance taken from the Book of Ezekiel. The largest bundle held canvases, brushes and paints. The Abbot had made it clear that as part of his penance and to avoid eternal damnation and excommunication, Francisco was to paint a work worthy of God that would form part of the monastery for time immemorial.

  Francisco was under no illusions. His chances of survival were minimal. Both the loaves and the water would soon be gone and what he would do then, he had no idea. Certain death faced him. The desert’s hardships were all engulfing, merciless, and excommunication was but a step away.

  The total quietness heightened the shifting waves of blistering heat. He reached the coolness of the rocky outcrop, a small cave structure, and dropped his bundles to the ground. He sat on a large flat rock. He would stay here and work out how to get food to live and where he might find water. He also knew that he had to get a fire going. With that, his chances of survival would be greater. Making a fire was not one of his skills. He’d been given a fire steel and he needed to collect flint stones and there were plenty around the rocks. Thoughts of Paloma and what had become of her added to his torment.

  “Paloma! Paloma!” His voice echoed around the rocks as he fell to his knees and tore off his robe and reached for the whip.

  “Paloma, forgive me. I beseech all the Saints, the Holy Mother of God and Christ himself for your forgiveness. Do not abandon me in my hour of need.”

  He swung the whip high in the air and back down as hard as he could across his back.

  Crack.

  “Paloma!”

  Crack.

  “Paloma!”

  The whip struck thirty times and thirty times he cried out.

  Paloma answered him.

  He heard her voice. It echoed in his head and around the craggy walls of the small cave.

  “Francisco … Francisco, I am here, and I hear you.”

  Francisco stopped the whip in mid-air and his eyes widened. His head swung left and right but there was nobody to be seen.

  “Paloma?” his voice rose in an urgent, disbelieving whisper. “Paloma?”

  “Beloved, put down the whip and listen to me.” Her voice filled the cave.

  Francisco lowered the whip to the ground. His jaw had dropped, and his eyes looked wild. Blood trickled down his back as he struggled to speak. “I am listening, Beloved.” He bent his head low and covered his face with his hands.

  “Francisco, I feel your sorrow and your pain, and you have been forgiven. You must now paint … paint as you have never done before and as you do, think only of me and of the power of Christ. If you do, I promise you your work will be blessed. When it is finished, we shall be together once more.”

  His agonised howl filled the confined space. “Paloma! Paloma! I promise.” He sensed her leaving him. “Don’t go! Don’t leave me, Paloma, please!”

  There was no response and she was gone as quietly as she had appeared.

  Silence.

  Naked, with his back and shoulders a patchwork of bloody welts, he used his tabard to clean off the crimson stains. Francisco bent in fervent prayer. His love of God mingled with his everlasting shame. His mind overflowed with visions of Paloma … her child, he neither knew was alive or dead. His torment mingled and shifted with her and increasing visions, memories of Borgoña’s fresco … Lazarus … Christ … the shifting shroud … that stare. The hours of day passed into the darkness of night. He knew what he had to do, what he had been singled out to do from the day he was born.

  §

  He ignored the hunger and the thirst that had caused his mouth to swell and blister, causing agony with every swallow. The shadow of the overhang gave Francisco the quality of light he needed and protected him from the burning sun. As if in a trance, he laid out his paints, brushes, boards, canvasses and palette. He had no plan … but God would guide him. There was no hesitation. He became the paint ... became the brush and the colours.

  There was nothing to think about. Francisco painted at speed, shaped and formed wet oils into tangible effortless creation … total flow, harmony and grace.

  Before the sun began its final downward dip, Francisco knew it was finished. He could not look at it although he knew he had never painted anything finer, having poured into it his total sorrowful being, body and soul.

  Contrition.

  After covering his work with his blood-stained tabard, he prostrated himself fully on the ground, naked, in front of his creation. Lazarus ... Lazarus ... Lazarus. He repeated the name over and over.

  Absorption.

  He knew the time had come. Francisco, Brother Francis, rose to his knees and bent his head, not daring to gaze upon the soft gold light that now emanated from beneath the tabard … reaching out for him. He lifted his head, spreading his arms wide.

  I can see you! Paloma, I am coming!

  Then, he vanished from the earth forever.

  Redemption.

  CHAPTER 35

  “Damn it!” De Witt cursed as he wiped away the paint from his canvas. The eyes did not look as he imagined they should. The expression he sought eluded him.

  In his mind, he could see it … clearly … but his hand and fingers could not capture it. The seventh attempt, even after a large whisky, was as off the mark as the other six. He stood back and looked hard at what he had achieved. All the components were in place and the colours matched those that Cortez would have used. It all seemed correct, the rocky tomb, Lazarus emerging from his shroud, the gawping onlookers and before them all, the figure of Christ in a tattered white robe with his hand outstretched. It was all very much as Cortez would have painted. The almost surreal interpretation, the merging of dark greens and blues, the right pigments, the aged canvas, the suggestion of cracking here and there all amounted to a genuine Cortez and only the highest handful of experts might be able to cast a doubt or two on its authenticity … if they looked hard at the problem of the eyes.

  He tried all he
knew. There was an essence, a quality that eluded him … and his result, whilst passable for most, was not one from the deepest part of his being, not one he was happy with. He could not do better. Throgmorton and whoever his client was, would never know the difference. He would be paid and at that moment, that was his only concern. But his professionalism was rattled. He had always strived for perfection and that hadn’t happened. He remained dissatisfied. Reaching for the dust sheet, he covered the work. It was time to let Throgmorton know the work was finished, collect his fee, and then get the hell out of Spain.

  §

  Throgmorton enjoyed a flush of pleasure from De Witt’s news that the project was complete. He plotted his next move. First, he needed to see the finished piece. If the work came up to standard, he could make his move on the Condesa. She was a desperate, dying woman willing to believe anything. He would extract every possible cent out of her. From that point, it wouldn’t be difficult to dispose of her, retrieve the work, and begin the task of presenting to the world the miraculous moneymaking equivalent of The Shroud of Turin. At the least, it could be presented as a masterpiece worth millions. There was, however, one major problem; Ladro and Stuart.

  He poured another flute of Dom Perignon, twirling the glass with grace around his fingers. He thought hard and knew there could be only one outcome. Threats and warning encounters had had no satisfactory result. Their presence had to be eliminated once and for all.

  The entire business had become a revelation to him as he realised how much he was enjoying the danger. Every twist and turn had become so much more rewarding to the spirit than the world of the judiciary. How tragic it was that what he had always suspected in himself had begun its blossoming so late in life.

  §

  With a theatrical flourish, De Witt snatched off the white covering sheet, stepped back and executed a sweeping bow.

  “Behold.”

  Throgmorton, accompanied by his guard, Copin, surveyed the work. With a flat tone of voice, he prevented any emotion from expressing itself. “You’re an idiot, De Witt.” He stared at the fake Cortez shimmering at him from the easel. “It’s quite dreadful. Who in their right mind would want to buy a thing like that?”

  “From the fuss you’re making over it, someone obviously,” retorted De Witt.

  “Let me see the photographs of his other works.”

  De Witt extracted from a large buff envelope dozens of blow-ups and angle shots he’d taken of Cortez’s paintings. He handed them over to Throgmorton.

  He looked continually from one to another and back at De Witt’s painting. He might not have liked what De Witt had accomplished, but he knew he couldn’t fault it. Will it fool the Condesa?

  “I don’t like them at all, they are dreadful, but I couldn’t tell that what you’ve painted isn’t by Cortez. It’s uncanny what you’ve achieved. It even looks centuries old. I congratulate you.”

  “It’s what I do. There’s nobody better.”

  “I hope not. There’s a lot depending on this. I want it packed with great care and delivered to me at my hotel. Please see to it. When it arrives and my deal is completed you will be paid.”

  He could see from the expression on De Witt’s face he wasn’t happy with that. “You don’t look too pleased. I’ll tell you what, I’ll make it easier for you, three thousand now, the rest as I said.”

  De Witt’s face hardened. “I’m not falling for that. You’re as big a crook as any I met in prison except you hide behind a show of crap respectability. I’ll tell you what, Judge, it’s all now or nothing. No cash, no painting. If not, I’ll destroy it before you get out of the door.” De Witt moved across to the work. In his hand, he held a tin of lighter fuel and a Zippo. “What’s it to be, Judge?”

  Throgmorton remained expressionless but he was startled. Face to face with a criminal dilemma was different from a courtroom ... very different, and one requiring a sharp decision. He’d often wondered how he would react in a situation like this, and now he knew. For a moment, he savoured the flavour of a man stepping onto the gallows.

  De Witt unscrewed the cap. “Judge, I’m waiting.” He held the bottle closer to the painting and the lighter at ready.

  “I’ll pay you in full and what you deserve.” Throgmorton turned and nodded at his man.

  Copin’s top lip curled as he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small suppressed pistol. He fired once. The shot went neatly through De Witt’s temple, dropping him to the floor before he could say a word. The lighter fuel spread out around his body marbling with blood.

  The Judge had never seen a man killed before and he was surprised at how little he reacted. It was the same as the feeling of satisfaction he got when sentencing a man to a long period in jail. It wasn’t personal, and something he could tolerate with ease. Stepping over the body, he picked up several large sheets and covered the painting.

  “Copin, grab that painting and bring it to the car.”

  Locking the door quietly behind them, unnoticed, they exited the building.

  §

  Pain continued to wrack her and cold sweat trickled from her forehead. The Condesa leant forward, baring her teeth, her face warped into a symphony of creases. She wrapped her arms across her stomach not knowing the exact area of pain. It oozed from every pore of her body. She’d had attacks in the past, but they were becoming more frequent and more painful. This one was exceptional in its severity. Her prayers to God were intermingled with increasing doses of a bitter tasting opium mixture of laudanum and cannabis. She gulped a mouthful straight from the bottle. It was illegal but its relief was rapid ... much faster than the prescribed doses of morphine. Salvation, she prayed, would be in the hands of Ladro and Stuart and how quickly they could find the hoped-for miracle work by Cortez. She would then be rid of disease and her creeping dependence. Of that she was certain.

  Relief wafted through her in spasms, its potency increasing by the minute. As the pain lessened, she managed to ease herself into an upright position. “Thank God,” she muttered and followed her exclamation with three Hail Marys. She took several deep breaths. I can’t take much more of this. I’d rather be dead. God is asking more than I can cope with. Lord have mercy, I beg you.

  From another room, she heard the phone ringing. The door opened and Donna announced she had an urgent call from Sir Maxwell Throgmorton.

  Maria forgot her pain. “What the hell does he want?” She snatched the phone away from her, sending Donna scuttling from the room.

  “Throgmorton, our business has finished. What can you possibly want?” His voice and what he said next unnerved her.

  “Listen to me Condesa and don’t interrupt. I want what you want and that is for you to become well once more. I have found what you have been looking for.”

  There was a pause and before she could speak, he continued.

  “Yes, the long-lost painting by Francisco Cortez ... I have it.”

  Silence.

  Maria grabbed at the chair to prevent herself from falling as blood rushed to her head. “That’s impossible,” she gasped. “Ladro and Stuart.”

  “Forget those two. They’re history and not the only people able to do research. It’s a long story but I think we need to talk. Those two are not what they pretend to be.”

  She fought for control but couldn’t prevent the questions rattling out. “Where are you? Where is the painting? Where did you find it?”

  “That’s my business. I have several photographs of the work and believe me the painting is genuine, one hundred per cent.”

  “I need to know more.”

  “Of course, you do. You shall see it soon, but you need to promise me something.”

  “What?” She knew what he was about to ask.

  “You tell nobody, especially our two friends.”

  “I promise.”

  The phone went dead. It was a promise she had no intention of keeping.

  CHAPTER 36

  Ladro’s raised eyebrows said it all.
He thought he must be hearing things, but what the Condesa had said was true. Throgmorton had claimed to have found the painting by Cortez and was meeting with her the next morning.

  “It’s a scam.” Ulla sounded incredulous.

  “Too right, it is. We know for certain that if the painting exists it’s somewhere secure in this area, and he, by some miracle, claims to have located it. Total rubbish.”

  “We could go there and confront him. Why not?”

  “It places her in an awkward position and she’s not strong enough to handle any rough stuff. Besides, she’ll let us know everything.” Ladro didn’t say, but he was wary of Ulla’s tendency to fire from the hip.

  “Will she fall for it?” Ulla tapped the pistol across her hand.

  “Definitely not, no matter how convincing he tries to be.”

  “Then, why see him at all? Will she be safe?”

  “Because she lives in hope that there could be a thread of truth in it, and as long as she has money, he won’t harm her.”

  Ulla’s looked cynical. “Well, where could it be, this sacred painting?”

  “Evita gave me a list of three monasteries around the Valencia area and two, at least have stood there for centuries. Once we’ve ploughed through the codex and the diaries, we should have a clue which one to visit.”

  “The Condesa?”

  “She promised us she wouldn’t be buying anything. She intends to string him along and feed us with information.”

  “What about Evita and her father Raúl?” Ulla looked puzzled.

  “All as usual. We’re due there in the morning and we’ll tell her anything that her father will pass on to Throgmorton. That way, we’ll know what he’ll be doing.”

  Ulla nodded and attempted to pour another glass of wine. The bottle was empty. “We’re out. I fancy another. How about you?”

  “Yep. You going to get some?”