by Paul Adam
‘You have some foundation for this theory? Or is it just guesswork?’
‘It’s guesswork,’ I admitted. ‘But I know how powerful is the urge to own a fine violin. I’ve seen it many times in the course of my career. It can override a man’s reason, his principles, even his sanity. Sometimes it’s frightening. Sometimes the consequences – as for Tomaso and Enrico Forlani – can be fatal.’
‘But if Anselmi knew, why didn’t he simply say the violin had turned up and send it on to Colquhoun?’
‘I don’t know. Shame perhaps. His son had disgraced him. Maybe he didn’t want to open that particular can of worms. Who knows what might have come out? Maybe he preferred to pay the money and forget about the violin. The painting tells the whole story. It’s all there. The young man holding the violin was Paolo Anselmi – made to pose for the artist by his angry father who was determined to humiliate his son, to punish him for what he’d done. Paolo’s guilt is there in his face, in the way he’s holding himself.’
‘And the violin?’ Guastafeste said. ‘What happened to it?’
‘There’s another clue in the painting,’ I said. ‘Where’s your camera, the pictures you took?’
Guastafeste leaned over into the back of the car and brought out his digital camera. He switched it on, holding it between us so we could both see the image of the painting on the tiny display screen on the back.
‘Just here,’ I said, pointing with my finger. ‘Through the window at the side of the music room. You see the cypress trees, the tower of a church? That distinctive brick tower with an open belfry? I knew I’d seen it somewhere before. It’s in the trees on the hillside just outside Casale. We saw it when we drove to Salabue.’
‘The violin is in the church?’ Guastafeste said.
‘Not the church. Anselmi gave it away in his letter. “The thief will take the secret of its whereabouts to the grave with him.”’
Guastafeste stared at me. ‘You think the violin is in a grave? Buried?’
‘In a grave, yes,’ I replied. ‘But I don’t think it’s buried.’
* * *
The road to the Sanctuary of St George climbed up the hillside in a series of tight hairpin bends, the slopes on either side cloaked in dense woodland. In the dark there was something sinister about the trees, the headlights of our car playing over their trunks, emphasising the deep shadows behind them, the hidden glades shrouded in the night. The church was on the summit of the hill. It was small and unostentatious, its bell tower silhouetted against the moonlit sky. I suppressed a shudder as I saw it. This was not a task I was looking forward to undertaking.
Guastafeste slowed and pulled off the road on to the tiny parking area in front of the church.
‘You all right?’ he said. ‘You can stay in the car, if you prefer.’
‘No, I want to be there.’
We climbed out. Guastafeste clicked on his torch, keeping its beam low, focused on the ground. There were no houses nearby, but there was a village across the valley where, even at two o’clock in the morning, someone might just be awake and wonder what a light was doing at the sanctuary.
We crossed the parking area to the wall around the churchyard. It was just over head height, covered with an uneven layer of whitewashed stucco. Guastafeste cupped his hands in front of him and gave me a leg up the wall, then scrambled over after me.
We set off across the churchyard. We’d been there that morning to reconnoitre, but everything looked different in the dark. The church was to our right, and on our left, perhaps fifty metres away, was a long wall of marble tombs stacked one on top of the other like drawers, the fronts inscribed with names and dates and sometimes an enamelled photograph of the deceased. In between, the ground was crammed with other graves, some with vertical headstones and crosses, some covered by horizontal stone slabs. Slowly we picked our way through them, following the narrow gravel paths that criss-crossed the whole area.
From the ranks of tightly packed graves it was easy to get the impression that the churchyard was full to overflowing, but as we came out of the shelter of one of the tall cypress trees that were planted at intervals along the paths, we almost stumbled into a freshly dug hole in the ground.
‘Careful,’ Guastafeste said, shining his torch along the edges of the pit, the mound of excavated soil piled up on the far side.
The atmosphere was unnerving. The graves were all around us, the moon hidden by clouds. Guastafeste’s torch beam picked out the shape of another cypress tree next to the path, then a white marble headstone so smooth and polished it reflected the light like a mirror. I could feel my flesh tingling, a tremor of foreboding on the back of my neck.
At the lower end of the churchyard were the grander tombs, the large family vaults that stood in their own plots of land like miniature temples, their marble pillars and turrets and towers emphasising the fact that even in death not all men are equal. The Anselmi family vault was one of the more modest in the enclave, reflecting their position as prosperous merchants rather than landed gentry. It was built in the shape of a marble cube, four sculpted angels standing vigil at each corner and the name ‘Anselmi’ carved above the door. A short flight of marble steps led up to a pair of heavy wrought-iron gates which protected the entrance to the tomb. The gates were fastened in the middle by a padlock and chain.
Guastafeste swung the rucksack he was carrying off his shoulders, unfastened the flap and took out a pair of boltcutters and a crowbar. He grasped hold of the boltcutters and glanced quickly around the churchyard. What we were doing was not only sacrilege, but a criminal offence. Guastafeste had considered applying for a court order to open up the tomb, but had decided against it. No judge, on the basis of a few cryptic sentences in an old letter and some tenuous guesswork, would have granted permission. Maybe we were wrong. Maybe this was all a mistake. But we had to know.
Guastafeste placed the jaws of the boltcutters around the chain and snapped through the links. The severed chain and padlock clattered to the floor. Guastafeste pulled open the gates. I put my hand on his arm.
‘Ssssh,’ I hissed. ‘I hear something.’
Guastafeste clicked off the torch. We waited in the darkness, listening. Faintly, in the distance, was the sound of a car engine drawing nearer. It was in a low gear, coming up the road from the valley. I could see the dim reflection of headlights in the trees beyond the perimeter wall of the graveyard. The glow grew brighter, the engine note louder. The car changed gear, nearing the summit. It slowed. I listened, waiting for the noise of tyres on gravel as the vehicle pulled into the parking area and stopped. But instead it accelerated, went straight past the sanctuary, dropping over the summit and away down the other side of the hill. I started breathing again.
We stepped inside the vault. Guastafeste’s torch flickered over the marble interior, illuminating the individual tombs that were stacked against the three walls. There were twelve in total. I inhaled. The air smelt fresh, no hint of damp or mustiness.
Guastafeste shone the torch beam over the inscriptions on the tombs. The oldest – in the lowest tier – dated from the early seventeenth century, the latest from the mid-nineteenth when either the vault had become full or the Anselmi family line had petered out. I saw the name Giovanni Michele Anselmi di Briata.
‘That’s the father. Where’s the son?’ I whispered. There was no one within earshot, but the very fact of being inside a vault made me lower my voice.
‘Over here,’ Guastafeste said. ‘Paolo Anselmi di Briata, 1778–1851.’
It was the very top sarcophagus in a stack of four. We examined it with the torch.
‘Do you think we can get the lid off?’
Guastafeste reached up and ran his fingers under the rim of the stone lid. ‘There’s a small gap just here.’
Guastafeste lifted the steel crowbar and jammed the tip under the lid of the sarcophagus. He pulled down with all his strength. The lid didn’t budge.
‘Give me a hand, Gianni.’
&n
bsp; I took hold of the crowbar and we pulled together.
‘Again,’ Guastafeste said. ‘Pull!’
I applied all my weight, every iota of power I could muster, to the crowbar.
‘And again,’ Guastafeste gasped.
I gripped the steel, felt my muscles knot, my feet almost leave the ground.
‘It’s going,’ Guastafeste breathed. ‘Don’t stop.’
There was a sharp crack as the seal around the lid broke. Then the crowbar dipped down suddenly, sliding out from beneath the stone rim and slipping from our grasps. It fell heavily to the floor, narrowly missing our feet. In the enclosed vault, the noise of steel hitting marble was like a grenade going off. Neither of us moved. My ears were ringing.
Then Guastafeste said, ‘You all right, Gianni?’
‘Yes, I’m okay.’
I picked up the torch and directed the beam upwards on to the sarcophagus. The lid had slid a little to one side, the corner jutting out above our heads. We looked at it, reluctant to make the next move. Finally, I turned my gaze to Guastafeste and he gave a slight nod. He knew it had to be him.
The wall of tombs wasn’t smooth. Each individual sarcophagus had a lip of marble around the base and another where the lid overhung the sides. Using the protruding lengths of stone as steps, Guastafeste clambered up to Paolo Anselmi’s sarcophagus and pushed one end of the lid away from him, opening up the marble casket.
‘Pass me the torch.’
I watched him examining the inside of the sarcophagus, leaning over, his head almost below the level of the sides.
‘Anything?’ I said, unable to contain my impatience.
Guastafeste looked down at me, his face in shadow so that I couldn’t see his expression.
‘Well?’ I prompted.
‘I’m sorry, Gianni,’ Guastafeste said gently. ‘It’s not there.’
I refused to believe it. I’d been so sure.
‘Look again, it has to be there.’
‘I’ve looked,’ Guastafeste said. ‘There’s no violin, nothing that resembles the remains of a violin.’
I felt my legs give way suddenly. I reached out and grabbed hold of one of the tombs to support myself.
‘Gianni, what is it?’ Guastafeste said in alarm.
I let out a gasp. ‘Nothing. Honestly, I’m fine.’
I straightened up, keeping my hand on the edge of the tomb. My legs were shaking, my pulse racing. I wondered fleetingly if I’d experienced a minor heart attack, but I knew it was nothing so serious. I was in mild shock, that was all; a shock induced by shattered expectations, by mental rather than physical trauma. I waited a moment, letting my breathing get back to normal. Guastafeste was sliding the lid of the sarcophagus back into place, jumping down next to me.
‘You need a drink,’ he said. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
He took hold of my arm, guiding me towards the exit. I kept my hand on the tombs just in case my legs went again. The cold marble under my palm was solid, comforting. I ran my fingertips over the smooth stone as we headed out of the vault. Then a gust of fresh air caught me in the face, reviving me. I paused, inhaling deeply.
‘I can manage,’ I said, easing my arm from Guastafeste’s grasp.
There was a waist-high marble plinth just by the exit, tucked away in the corner of the vault. I gripped the edge of it for a moment to steady myself before we went out through the wrought-iron gates. My thumb slid into a hole in the stone. I extricated it and rubbed the grazed knuckle, then stepped forward over the threshold of the vault, seeing the night sky above me, the moon obscured by cloud.
I came to an abrupt halt. A hole? Why would there be a hole?
‘Let me have the torch,’ I said to Guastafeste.
‘It’s all right, I’ll lead the way.’
‘No, I’m going back inside.’
‘What? Gianni, look…’
‘The torch.’
I took the torch from his fingers and went back into the vault, shining the beam on to the marble plinth. It was perhaps a metre long and half that in width. It struck me as incongruous. The vault in every other respect was symmetrical, yet there was no corresponding plinth on the opposite side of the entrance. I examined the top. It overhung the sides by four or five centimetres and cut into its underside was a series of holes. I crouched down and shone the torch upwards, sliding my forefinger into one of the holes. It seemed to go right through into the inside of the plinth.
‘The crowbar,’ I said.
‘Gianni, it’s not there. Don’t torture yourself,’ Guastafeste said.
‘Let me have it.’
Reluctantly, Guastafeste handed me the crowbar. I jammed one end under the top of the plinth and levered it downwards. The lid started to give a little. I forced the crowbar further in and pressed down on it. With a sudden jolt the marble slab broke free of the sides. I heaved the slab aside and shone the torch down into the hollow interior of the plinth. Only it wasn’t completely hollow. There was a small casket inside it, a rectangular box of what looked like lead. I tried to lift it out, but it was too heavy.
‘Antonio, help me.’
‘Help…’ Guastafeste peered inside the plinth. ‘Dio. What is that?’
I grasped one end of the lead casket, Guastafeste the other and together we lifted it out and placed it on the floor. I noticed that, like the marble plinth, the casket had air holes cut into one of its sides. It was locked. I knelt down and broke open the lock with the crowbar. I paused, preparing myself. Then I took hold of the lid and slowly raised it. Inside was another box made of wood – a long, tapering box about the size and shape of a violin case. Guastafeste came closer, looming over my shoulders.
‘Open it,’ he said.
Then another voice said, in English: ‘Yes, why not?’
Christopher Scott was standing in the entrance to the vault. Guastafeste straightened up, twisting round, but Scott was ready for him. The length of timber he was holding in his hand came hammering down on to the side of Guastafeste’s head. Wood and skull connected with jarring force. Guastafeste grunted and crumpled to the floor. Scott leaned over him and with one slick movement removed Guastafeste’s police revolver from the holster under his arm. Scott pointed the revolver at me.
‘Give me the box.’
I ignored him and crawled over to Guastafeste. He was stunned rather than unconscious.
‘Antonio? Antonio?’
Guastafeste groaned, one hand going to the gash on the side of his head. I helped him up into a sitting position. There was a thin trickle of blood on his cheek.
‘You okay?’ I said.
Guastafeste nodded weakly.
I looked up at Scott. He was edging round us, trying to get to the violin case. He was too dangerous for me to risk tackling him on my own. I needed to distract him, to give Guastafeste time to recover.
‘How did you know?’ I said. ‘Did you follow us?’
Scott paused. He gave a contemptuous laugh. ‘Highfield Hall. I was there just after you. The old lady told me about the painting. I’d already been to Casale, seen this church on the hill. I worked it out.’
‘And Tomaso Rainaldi? Why?’
‘He was stupid, naïve. He was in the way. An obstacle that had to be removed.’
Scott bent down and picked up the violin case. I felt the rage bubbling up inside me. I knew Scott was going to kill us too. I groped around on the floor and my fingers closed around the stem of the torch. Scott was turning away, moving back towards the door of the vault, his gaze momentarily distracted. I pushed myself to my feet and swung the torch round in a vicious arc. Scott was unprepared, slow. The torch smashed into the side of his head. He reeled and stumbled against the marble gatepost. His right wrist caught on the sharp edge of the post. The revolver fell from his grasp and skittered away across the floor. I hit him again. Scott lost his footing and fell over backwards, tumbling down the steps outside the vault. I heard a thud as his body hit the ground.
Guastafeste was s
tanding up now. He pushed past me and staggered to the entrance of the vault.
‘Antonio?’
‘I’m all right.’
He steadied himself for a second, then stepped out. I went after him. Scott was kneeling up on the gravel path at the bottom of the steps, the violin case beside him. He looked up and saw us emerging from the vault. His face was pale in the moonlight, his mouth twisted into a savage snarl. He picked up the violin case and stood up, turning to run. Guastafeste didn’t wait. He pushed off from the top of the steps, hurling himself out into space. His outstretched arms grabbed hold of Scott’s legs and the two men crashed to the ground. Scott rolled over, kicking out with his foot. His shoe caught Guastafeste on the side of the head. Guastafeste shook it off and threw himself on top of Scott. Scott twisted sideways, writhing like a snake. One of his fists scythed round into Guastafeste’s face. Guastafeste’s head snapped back and he lost his grip on the dealer.
Scott grasped hold of the violin case and slithered away. Guastafeste groaned, one hand going to his temple. He had a nasty wound. He was losing blood. I had to do something. Then I remembered Guastafeste’s revolver. I stepped back into the vault and picked up the torch. The beam lanced around the marble tombs. Where was it? I saw the dull gleam of gun metal in a corner and bent down. I hurried back outside. Scott was stumbling across the graveyard, Guastafeste a few metres behind him. The revolver clutched in my hand, I ran after them.
Scott was weaving between the gravestones, a shadowy figure in the darkness. Guastafeste was pursuing him doggedly, but losing ground. Scott was uninjured, younger, more agile. He was getting away.
‘Antonio!’ I yelled. ‘Your gun.’
I saw Guastafeste pause, turning in my direction, then continue running. He couldn’t afford to wait for me. I was out of breath, slowing. My lungs and knees were feeling their age. I lost sight of both Scott and Guastafeste as they disappeared behind a cypress tree. Then I heard a distant cry. A sudden, sharp exclamation, more surprise than pain. Whose voice had it been? I couldn’t be sure. I came round the bend by the cypress tree and stopped abruptly. Guastafeste was standing on the path in front of me, looking down. Of Scott there was no sign.
