by Ken Fry
“So, if the monastery was wrecked and burnt, isn’t it possible that the monks could have taken what valuables they could carry and gone elsewhere?”
“But where? There were many monasteries in those days although few still survive.”
“Evita, could you research what places existed back then and what few remain to this day?”
“Yes, of course. There are several; give me twenty-four hours.”
§
Ulla struggled to wake.
From outside, she could hear the muffled noises of the street traffic. She shook her head in an attempt to rid herself of the dull ache banging inside. She’d had dreams, dreams of killing men.
“Brodie, where are you?”
It was then that she saw his note. She wasn’t surprised to see he’d gone to the vineyard. Her next thought concerned Throgmorton. What would she do if she were him? She couldn’t see him walking away with his tail tucked between his legs. They hadn’t seen the last of him. The chain of events had gone a long way to convince her there could be some truth in the Condesa’s belief in the existence of a miraculous work of art.
A knock at the door startled her.
“Who is it?” She gripped the butt of her concealed pistol.
The reply threw Ulla into confusion. “Sister Agnes de León. I am the Abbess of the Monastery of Our Lady of Olives in Valencia. Please, Miss Stuart, I need to speak with you.”
Ulla gasped. Who on earth ... what? She kept the door on the security chain and eased it open, keeping one hand behind her on the gun butt. The person she saw standing there was not what she expected. She found herself staring into the smiling green eyes of a diminutive woman who wore the simple black pinafore dress and headwear of a modern-day nun. Around her waist hung a heavy black rosary, and in her hands, she carried a small black bag. Her face looked ageless.
Without thinking, Ulla drew back the door bolt, and stood back to allow her in.
“Sister?” She didn’t know how to address her but gestured for her to step inside.
She strode in as if on a mission.
“Miss Stuart.” She turned to face her. Her soft voice was clear but with an edge. “I’m sorry to startle you and I won’t waste your time. I’ll get straight to the point as to why I’m here.”
Ulla found herself recovering. “Well I can see you’re not here to collect money for starving orphans. Take a seat. What can I do for you?”
The Abbess sat but remained bolt upright. “Miss Stuart, you and Señor Ladro are looking for a painting by Francisco Cortez. Am I correct?”
“What ... but how do you know that?”
She ignored the question. “I will tell you in a moment. The painting by Cortez is a monastic legend, which I believe in. So must you or you wouldn’t be looking so hard.”
“So, why are you here and how do I know you are who you say you are?”
“You must trust me. What I say is true and I can help you. Before Cortez was banished into the Tabernas desert, he made certain alterations to several of his finished works. He was being punished. That much is known, and he was rumoured to have painted a picture that I believe is the one you seek. He was never seen again, and no proof exists that he committed suicide. What he painted was the only thing the monks found, together with his paints and brushes.”
Ulla hesitated. She had a whole clutch of questions she wanted to ask. “Sister, you don’t beat about the bush, do you? Where did those monks come from and where is the painting?”
The Abbess sat still with her hands resting on her lap. “The monks came from the Monasterio de San Vicente de Valencia.”
“What! We’ve been there. It’s a ruin.” Ulla’s voice rose but she refrained from telling the nun she’d been held there as Throgmorton’s prisoner.
“Yes, it’s a ruin and was destroyed in an earthquake in the sixteenth-century.”
“So, are you telling me, Sister, that we’re on a wild goose chase and the painting doesn’t exist?”
“Far from it, Señorita. There is much to suggest that it survived, or its spirit survives … waiting to be resurrected by the right person.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying. You’ll have to explain more.”
“At about the time Cortez was being punished for a non-discloser in his first confession, a fresco in the Toledo Cathedral, The Raising of Lazarus by Juan de Borgoña, disintegrated without warning. That fresco was reputed to be powerful and many witnesses reported seeing it move on certain occasions. The monks who went to bring back Cortez from his ordeal in the desert found not only what I’ve just told you, but also notes referring to an experience he had while looking at that fresco when he was a young boy. Cortez’s painting was taken back to the monastery and in the same year, the earthquake destroyed the building. The painting had been kept in secret, but it has never been found and no one had a clue as to where it went. All that was discovered were Cortez’s old brushes. We know they were his because the monks had mounted them in a glass case with his name on it. Those who know the story regard them as a sacred relic, as do I.”
A cold shiver went down Ulla’s neck. She exhaled slowly. The Cortez story had gained some flesh on its bones. She emptied the dregs of last night’s scotch into a heavy tumbler.
“So, where are these brushes, Sister?”
The Abbess relaxed and now leant back a little into the chair. “We have them at our Abbey. They are not on view.”
“Can we see them?” Ulla stood staring down at the frail figure of Sister Agnes. “And why are you doing this? How did you know about us?”
“Yes, I can arrange for you to see them. Why am I doing this? That’s a long story. When I was a child, I lived in shame and degradation, forced to steal and perform sexual favours for anyone who asked. My mother had died when I was born, and my father was a drunken degenerate who continued to hire me to anyone who wanted me. One day, as I sat half naked in the street, a woman passed by. My father sold me to her. The woman wanted nothing from me. She took me to her home and became my stepmother. She gave me a kindly life; one I didn’t deserve. Without her, I would not be where I am today. You know her as the Condesa Maria Francisca de Toledo.”
Ulla’s hand covered her mouth as for a few moments her body went cold. “Oh my!”
The Abbess continued, “When she told me of her illness and the story of Cortez, I thought of the brushes we have, although, bound to secrecy, I could not tell her. But I resolved that if they could help her in any way, I swore I would break my oath. She has told me of your involvement and that is why I am telling you. If she can be helped in some way, I will do it.”
Ulla couldn’t remember the last time she was rendered speechless. “Give me a moment, please.” She bent her head and took a deep breath before looking back up at the Abbess, who was smiling at her.
“Oh wow! I’m honoured.” Ulla struggled, paused, composed herself, then spoke, “Tell me, Sister, do you have any idea where the painting could have gone to?”
Sister Agnes shook her head. “No, but there are monasteries in this region that were built during the middle ages, any of which could be harbouring the work.”
“I’m sure my partner Brodie can find them.”
“With God, all things are possible, Señorita Stuart. If you can believe the universe came from nothing, then what’s so odd about paintings that have an ability to heal?” Sister Agnes stood. “My time is over. Please call me to arrange a viewing with Señor Ladro, but don’t leave it too long. I suspect my mother has not much time.” She moved to the door.
Ulla had a desire to hug her.
“God bless you both and bring you success.” She hesitated a moment, gave a small smile, bent her head and walked from the room.
The small tear in her eye did not escape Ulla’s notice.
CHAPTER 43
Throgmorton thought her voice sounded peculiar, almost as if she was drunk, but he doubted that. Medication, he concluded, produced similar symptoms.
&n
bsp; He dispensed with etiquette. “I’m going to show you what I’ve found, and you will see that it’s genuine. Bring any expert over to examine it and I’m certain they’ll agree to its authenticity. I’ll also bring over some photographs. When would be convenient?”
She paused. He let it hang.
After what seemed an age, she finally spoke. “It seems hard to believe, but yes, I would like to see the painting and its provenance, but you need to give me a few days. There are some matters I’ve to attend to.”
He sensed reluctance. “I thought you were desperate. But I’ll give you forty-eight hours. That’s all the time I can give you as I have another interested party. And remember, this is strictly between us.”
Something didn’t seem quite right. Why, if she’s so ill, isn’t she jumping at the opportunity?
§
Brodie’s head ached. He’d been working for several hours going through community records and the archives, trying to bring some coherence between them. Perhaps the whole thing about a miraculous painting was a hoax, a local legend, an invention, a potential money maker. But for what purpose? He recognised something in himself that connected with the story and that he’d gone beyond the point of speculation. The Condesa believed it, she had to, for without it, all she could do was curl up and die. If the work was found, then only Evita and her father had a genuine claim to it.
What do I think? I started off disbelieving, but now … too much has happened to me and I have to believe it whether I like it or not. It’s like tracing your ancestors; the more you get into it, the more you sense them and know them. You feel as if you are part of them. I sense that I fit into this story … played a part somehow. I’ve researched one-hundred-and-one stories and have never felt like this. How is it I seem to know what’s coming next and know where places mentioned are? Why do the characters seem familiar? I do believe this story has truth.
He was past jumping to conclusions. The records mentioned the same monastery where he’d had the vision. They also mentioned the former Guadamur monastery, now part ruin, where the Condesa lived. Evita had given him a short list of monasteries which remained standing, that had their roots in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. There were four and he wasn’t going to make predictions. His phone began ringing. It was Ulla.
“Brodie, you’re not going to believe what I’m going to tell you.”
“What?”
“The Condesa has a daughter.”
“Should that surprise me?”
“It will. Listen, she’s a stepdaughter and it gets weirder. She’s a nun. More than a nun, she’s the Abbess, the hotshot of the Convent of Our Lady of Olives outside Valencia. I’ve just been speaking with her.”
“I’m listening.”
“What is going on here, dear Brodie, is that the Abbess knows what we are doing and has been informed of our work by the Condesa.”
“I can’t see why that’s anything to get excited about.”
“You will when I tell you that in her monastery are kept the actual brushes that Francisco Cortez used on his last painting.
“She has what!”
“You heard. Stay right where you are. I’m on my way over.”
The phone switched off and Brodie’s skin began to itch.
CHAPTER 44
Throgmorton licked his lips. He now knew there was little he would stop at. Finding a replacement for his dead men had not been difficult. The new man was to do nothing until something significant occurred or if instructed otherwise. Of one thing, he was certain. The meddling duo, when the painting was found, would not be allowed to live. His plans for the Condesa were no less destructive.
He began part one of his plan.
The Condesa wanted provenance. He’d anticipated that and had found a fifteenth century chest, battered, worn, and hanging together on ancient rivets and discoloured nails. Using the National Library of Spain in Madrid, he gained access to monastic hymnals going back to the thirteenth century. Pretending to study them and to write notes, he managed to remove several vellum pages and later paper examples of monastic rituals and Gregorian chants. The desecration went unnoticed, as he knew it would. Then, feigning a fit of coughing, he replaced one small volume with a similar but modern facsimile, picking up the genuine article and placing it in his bag. Fake authentication by one of Spain’s leading art historians was just as easy. Large amounts of cash had always been persuasive. An hour later, he began heading back to his hotel.
It was time for part two.
§
The following morning, the sun refused to appear. Black clouds scudded across an unwelcoming panorama of shrubs and barren ground that led to a small track into the Condesa’s grounds.
Throgmorton eased the 4x4 into the crunchy driveway of her home, following the large circular turnaround before he brought it to a stop outside the main entrance. Stepping outside he found himself engulfed in a silence that filled the entire complex. He didn’t have to wait long.
The door was opened by the maid. “Señor Throgmorton, I am to show you to the waiting room. The Condesa will not be long.” She stood back and gestured him in.
Being kept waiting was one of many things he hated. He ran his hands with obvious irritation through his silver hair and, without looking at the maid said, “I’m not used to being kept waiting. Tell her she’s got a maximum of seven minutes.”
The maid’s expression didn’t alter as she turned and walked off without answering, her sensible shoes clattering across the giant flagstones. With thirty-seconds remaining, the Condesa appeared. He could see her face was expressionless. She’d deteriorated since they had last met. She looked years older.
Her tone was hostile.
“Throgmorton, frankly, I suspect you are wasting my time. But I examine everything. You say you have the missing painting by Cortez. I doubt that. How on earth someone like you with no professional experience could find it when experts have struggled in vain is beyond me. So, before I ask you to leave, show me.”
She was, as ever, arrogant, brittle and overflowing with suspicion. He remained confident. “It took me a lot of time and money to achieve that. The work is genuine and authenticated by Professor Miguel Garcia, one of your chief art historians and an expert in medieval and Spanish art up to the eighteenth century.
He saw her hesitation.
“Experts are no guarantee and they’ve often been wrong. Where did you find it?”
“That’s my business.” He began buttoning up his coat. “If you want to see it, it’s in the car.”
He could see the hopeful desperation that she was trying hard to conceal.
“It’s not too much to ask where it was found, is it?”
He ignored her request and made his way towards the door. Shaking his head, he adopted an expression of injured innocence, but knew she wouldn’t let him go. She was hooked.
With surprising swiftness, she had turned and blocked the doorway. She raised an arm. “Stop.”
Feigning an air of exasperation, he halted. “Look, you fired me and now when I independently find what you wanted, you don’t believe me. I’m wasting my time here. Let me pass.”
“I’m not saying that. I may have been hasty. I admit I could be wrong.”
Music to his ears.
He wasn’t going to make it easy for her. “No, sorry Condesa, I’ve somebody else who is more than interested.” He made a half-hearted attempt to manoeuvre around her. Her resistance surprised him, and her eyes glowered with a tenacity he hadn’t thought possible.
He stood back and stared into her fierce expression.
He refused to speak. The game was enjoyable.
Checkmate.
“Please, Sir Max,” she pleaded.
She’s more desperate than I thought. “It’s Max now, is it? Well, I’m not the bastard everyone thinks I am. Let’s start afresh, shall we? All you have to do is say, ‘Sorry, Max’ and I’ll show you the painting and tell you how I found it, together with the authent
ication.
“Sorry, Max.” Her reply was immediate.
“Follow me.” He strode out to the car and Maria struggled to follow him. He swung open the boot lid to reveal the distressed antique chest. “I checked the monastic records at the National Library. There was only one place it could have been and that’s my secret. This is what I found it sitting in.
She attempted to open the chest, but Throgmorton pushed her arm down. “Don’t you want to see the authentication documents first?”
“Later, the painting first. I’ll know if it’s genuine or not.”
“You’re an expert, are you? Well, let’s assume it is genuine. That brings into question a matter of my revised fees and costs.” A sardonic sneer curled across his lips.
Her head tilted to meet his expression “If it’s real, I’ll pay you what we originally agreed.”
“But Your Grace, that was yesteryear. Times and situations have changed dramatically and so have costs.”
“How much?”
Throgmorton puckered his lips. He knew her situation was critical, so he decided to milk it. “Five million sterling, paid on your receipt by banker’s draft.”
If she was startled, she failed to show it. She nodded. “Open it.”
He noticed a hint of tension. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped harder on her walking cane.
He hauled open the chest as the vibration of his mobile jangled against his waist.
CHAPTER 45
Journeying to the Convent of Our Lady of Olives was taking longer than expected. Ulla was driving and that gave Brodie time to consider what he’d found out from the archives, Cortez’s diaries, and the additional material that Evita had supplied.
It was tantalising and there were lots of it.
He read aloud from his scanned copies and notes. “Listen, from what it says here, the original monastic archives were once kept in Jerusalem as part of one of the first Christian orders who established a settlement in the Holy City. The records stretch back until the eleventh century. There is a small black pattée drawn at the head of the document, followed by the inscription KORL... They were taken to Spain in the thirteenth century by Alphonse of Poitiers, after the Order collapsed and the monks fled under persistent attacks from the Muslim Saracens.
