The crypt was not big, and was jammed with all manner of discarded junk. A layer of dust covered everything and spiders had been allowed to create elaborate webs undisturbed. As he picked his way carefully through the clutter, he decided that sorting out the crypt would be another task he could complete. He found the wooden chairs Don Edoardo had mentioned and began to unstack them, only to discover that all of them had either a leg missing or no back. He turned round and knelt down to pick up a rotting prayer book from a pile on the floor. As he opened it, the pages disintegrated in his fingers.
Suddenly, the oil lamp went out and the crypt descended into complete darkness. He ferreted in his pocket for his lighter and reignited the wick, but the lamp went out again almost immediately. As he did his best to stumble back to the entrance, deciding a torch would serve him better, Luca caught his foot on something. Letting out a yelp of pain, he fell with a thump, his ankle taking the brunt of his fall.
Luca lay in the darkness, unable to move until the pain lessened. Something crawled across his hand and he pulled it back quickly. Trying to keep calm, he eventually retrieved his lighter from his trouser pocket and managed to rekindle the oil lamp. Looking down, he saw he’d tripped over the corner of an ancient leather-bound trunk which had been partially hidden by a pile of moth-eaten vestments. Putting the lamp down beside him, he hauled the garments to one side, coughing as a cloud of dust filled the dank air. Gingerly, he lifted the heavy lid off the trunk.
The interior was lined with purple velvet, and as Luca put his hands tentatively inside, they grasped a large, heavy object. He struggled to pick it up and out of the trunk, and shining his lamp upon it, saw an ornately engraved chalice, tarnished by age and neglect. Taking out his handkerchief, he spat on the fabric to moisten it, then rubbed a small spot of the metal to clean it, revealing the lucent gleam of what he was sure must be silver. With a sense of growing excitement, he placed the chalice carefully on the floor beside him, then began to remove the rest of the trunk’s contents.
The next item was a prayer book, the pages yellowing and fragile, but, protected from the damp by the thick leather of the trunk, still in one piece. Next out of the trunk was another set of priest’s vestments. As Luca lifted them out, he felt something solid wrapped inside. At that moment the oil lamp flickered ominously and, not wishing to be plunged into darkness again, Luca gathered the chalice and prayer book from the floor, and rolled the vestments under his arm. Hooking the wire handle of the lamp over one finger, he groped his way towards the stairs.
In the vestry, Luca laid the vestments on the floor and unfolded them slowly. In the centre of one of the garments he found a small, battered leather pouch, not much larger than his hand. Carefully extracting the contents of the pouch, Luca saw he was holding a small canvas drawing mounted on a crude wooden frame. He stared down at the instantly familiar face.
It was as if the artist had managed to capture her grace, her serenity and her soul. This was how he himself imagined the Madonna when he closed his eyes and prayed. The drawing, executed in fine, delicate lines of a reddish-brown colour, was simple, yet so perfect that Luca could not tear his eyes from it.
He stared at it for a long time. Miraculously, having been so well shrouded from light and damp, the drawing itself hardly showed signs of age. Turning the edges of the canvas gently over, taking care to touch it as little as possible, Luca searched for something to give him a clue as to the artist.
Maybe his find was worthless, but Luca nonetheless felt a shiver slide unbidden up his spine. Don Edoardo would be back later and he could show him the drawing and the chalice and see if the old priest knew of their existence. Until then . . . Luca reverently replaced the canvas in the pouch. He stowed the chalice, the prayer book and the drawing inside the sacrament cupboard, then turned the key and locked it.
11
‘So, the performers will stand around the altar?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the grand piano will be placed here?’
‘Yes.’ Luca watched as the woman prowled round the church.
‘And we will serve wine over there by the font? What do you think?’
‘It’s a good idea, Signora Bianchi,’ replied Don Edoardo, surreptitiously raising an exasperated eyebrow at Luca.
‘Good. So, everything seems to be under control. Demand for the tickets has been excellent. I think we’ll have a full house for our little recital.’ Donatella advanced towards the altar and looked in distaste at the tattered altar cloth that had clearly seen better days. ‘Have you another piece of material we could use for the evening? This looks rather . . . shabby.’
‘No, we haven’t another. This is what the recital is all about, is it not, signora? To raise funds for new altar cloths and other renovations,’ Don Edoardo reminded her patiently.
‘Of course. Well, we can dress the church with candles, and stand flower displays on either side of the statue of the Madonna.’
‘Yes,’ Don Edoardo agreed once more as he watched Donatella pick up the silver chalice, which had been lovingly polished since Luca’s discovery and placed on the altar.
‘This is a beautiful piece of workmanship. And very old, I should imagine.’ Donatella turned it round in her hands as she studied it.
‘Luca found it in the crypt some weeks ago. I’ve been meaning to get someone to value it – for insurance purposes, you understand – but my mind has been on other things.’
‘I see.’ Donatella replaced the chalice and glanced at Don Edoardo. ‘Although my husband is an art dealer, he has friends who would be well placed to give an opinion on something like this. Shall I ask him to find someone to value it for you?’
‘That would be very kind,’ agreed Don Edoardo. ‘You say your husband is an art dealer?’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘Then Luca, I think you should go and get the drawing you found.’
Luca made off in the direction of the vestry.
‘Signor Menici also found a line drawing,’ Don Edoardo explained. ‘It may be of no value, but perhaps your husband would take a look at that too?’
‘Of course,’ Donatella said, nodding.
Luca was soon back with the drawing. ‘Here.’ He handed it to her carefully.
Donatella stared at the canvas. ‘Why, it’s such an exquisite sketch of the Madonna,’ she exclaimed admiringly. ‘You say you found this down in the crypt of this church?’
‘Yes, in an old trunk. We checked the records and from the inscription in his prayer book, we are sure it was the property of Don Dino Cinquetti. He was il parroco, the priest here, during the sixteenth century.’
‘So this drawing could be hundreds of years old? Yet it looks virtually unmarked,’ breathed Donatella.
‘I think it must be because it was so well protected. It probably hasn’t seen any light for three hundred years.’
‘Well, I promise I’ll take the greatest care of it. Would you wrap the chalice for me?’
Don Edoardo looked uneasy. ‘Could your husband not come here to the church to look at both artefacts?’
‘He’s a busy man, Don Edoardo, and is only home for the next few days before he flies to the United States. You have my word no harm will come to either the chalice or the drawing; and this way I should have an answer for you quickly. I’ll take them straight home, where I assure you we have excellent security. Surely you trust me?’ Donatella queried.
‘Of course, signora,’ the old priest murmured in embarrassment.
Giovanni Bianchi stared at the two objects on the table in front of him.
‘Where did you say these were found?’
‘La Chiesa Della Beata Vergine Maria. Apparently they were packed in an old trunk in the crypt with the belongings of a dead priest. Indications are that the priest lived in the sixteenth century. I thought the chalice might be worth something,’ Donatella explained.
‘Yes, yes, I’m sure it will be, but this’ – Giovanni picked up the drawing – ‘this is q
uite breathtaking. You say the sixteenth century?’
‘That’s what the priest told me.’
Giovanni pulled a magnifying glass out of his jacket pocket and studied the drawing carefully. When he looked up at his wife, Donatella saw the glint of excitement in his eyes.
‘When you look at this, does the face seem familiar?’
‘Of course. It’s the Madonna,’ she replied scornfully.
‘So,’ continued Giovanni patiently, ‘how do you define the image you have in your mind’s eye of the Madonna?’
‘Through the paintings and drawings I’ve seen of her, I suppose.’
‘Exactly. And who has given us one of the most famous images of the Madonna?’
‘I . . .’ Donatella shrugged. ‘Leonardo da Vinci, of course.’
‘Yes. Wait one moment.’ Giovanni left the sitting room and returned a few minutes later with the catalogue of the National Gallery, London. He turned the pages until he found what he was looking for. ‘There.’ Giovanni laid the catalogue next to the drawing on the table. ‘Study the face, the detail. There are strong similarities, yes?’
Donatella looked carefully. ‘Yes, Giovanni, but . . . I . . . surely it can’t be . . .’
‘I’ll need to make the most careful enquiries, but my instincts tell me this is either the most excellent fake, or we may have discovered a lost Leonardo drawing.’
‘You mean, the old priest and the young man have discovered it,’ corrected Donatella.
‘Of course,’ Giovanni agreed hastily. ‘I must take this with me to New York. I want a friend of mine to see it. He’s an expert in the verification of the great masters. He’s also discreet – for a percentage of the profits, that is,’ he added slyly.
‘Well, I must ask Don Edoardo for his permission before you do that, of course,’ countered his wife.
‘But surely the priest doesn’t need to know just yet? You could tell him that both the chalice and the drawing are being appraised and that I’ll have an answer for them in a week’s time. And, Donatella?’
‘Yes, caro?’
‘I do not want you telling anybody else about this until we know the truth.’
‘Of course.’ Donatella registered the gleam of avarice in her husband’s eyes. ‘I shall do as you ask.’
Ten days later, Donatella visited Don Edoardo at Beata Vergine Maria.
‘Good news,’ she smiled at him. ‘Excellent news, in fact.’ Donatella settled herself in a pew.
‘Your husband thinks the chalice might be worth something?’
‘Yes, it is apparently extremely valuable. My husband says that, at auction, it may go for fifty thousand dollars. That’s about thirty million lire.’
‘Thirty million lire!’ Don Edoardo was stunned. ‘I hadn’t dreamt it would be worth so much!’
‘My husband wishes to know what you would like him to do – whether you wish to sell the chalice. If you do, he can arrange for it to go into an auction.’
‘I . . . I hadn’t considered the possibility of a sale. I will have to talk to my bishop. I’m not sure what he will want to do,’ sighed Don Edoardo. ‘The Church may well want to keep the chalice in its possession. The decision isn’t mine to make.’
‘Don Edoardo, please, come and sit down.’ Donatella patted the pew next to her. The priest consented warily. ‘Please forgive me my impertinence, but what is it your beautiful church requires at the moment?’
‘Money, of course, to restore it to its former glory,’ he admitted, feeling out of his depth in a conversation of this kind.
‘Exactly. Now, may I ask whether you have told anyone of your find?’
‘No. I didn’t think it necessary until we discovered whether we’d found something of value.’
‘I see.’ Donatella nodded. ‘Personally, I think it’s doubtful that, if you tell your bishop, you or this church will see much of the proceeds from the sale of the chalice, even assuming he wishes to sell it.’
‘I think, Signora Bianchi, that your assumption is correct,’ Don Edoardo agreed uneasily.
‘Well now, my husband and I may have come up with a solution. He is prepared to pay you the amount of money he believes the chalice will achieve at auction. The figure I mentioned was thirty million lire. He will then sell the chalice to a private collector. You will have a lot of money to help restore your church and no one need know the truth.’
Don Edoardo stared at her. ‘But, Signora Bianchi, surely my bishop will wonder where such a large amount of money came from?’
‘Of course. And you’ll tell him, and anyone else who asks, that Signor Bianchi was so shocked by the state of the building when he and his wife visited for the recital she had helped organise that he decided to make a large donation there and then.’
‘I see.’
‘Don Edoardo, I understand you don’t wish to do anything dishonest. My husband and I will act in whatever way you wish. But personally, I think that, with your beautiful church in need of so much work, and with the chalice being found here, it may be God’s will that it is used for the church’s exclusive benefit, no?’
‘You may be right, of course, Signora Bianchi. But how could you be sure that no one would ever know?’ Beads of sweat pricked Don Edoardo’s forehead. Donatella observed them and knew she had her prey firmly in her sights. She went in for the kill.
‘You have my word on that. The chalice can be sold privately abroad. My husband has a long list of wealthy private collectors who wish to be discreet. And just think how much work could be accomplished in God’s name with the proceeds.’
‘I . . . must think.’ Don Edoardo sighed deeply. ‘I must ask for God’s guidance.’
‘Of course.’ Donatella took a card out of her handbag. ‘Why don’t you telephone me when you’ve made your decision?’
‘I will. Thank you, Signora Bianchi, for all your help.’
‘Really, it was nothing.’ She stood up to leave. ‘Oh, I almost forgot about the drawing,’ she added casually. ‘My husband doesn’t believe it’s valuable. Certainly it is finely drawn, but then the Madonna has been pictured many, many times by the world’s most illustrious artists. He doubts this little sketch would generate much interest in comparison.’
‘Of course, we assumed that would be the case,’ said the priest, with a deferential nod.
‘However,’ continued Donatella as she buttoned her immaculately tailored coat, ‘I’ve become quite attached to it, and therefore would like to make you a private offer to buy it for myself. How does three million lire sound?’
Don Edoardo looked at her in disbelief. ‘Like a generous sum of money. You’re most kind, but I must think about it. I shall be sure to speak to you as soon as I’ve made my decision.’
‘Then I look forward to hearing from you. Good afternoon.’ Donatella nodded graciously and swept out of the church.
‘Good afternoon, Signora Bianchi,’ Don Edoardo murmured to her departing back.
Two days later, Donatella handed her husband a glass of champagne as he entered the sitting room.
‘He’s agreed?’
‘Yes. He telephoned me this afternoon.’
‘Cara, you’ve been wonderful,’ said Giovanni. ‘Now, I must call New York and tell my client the good news. And of course, you must have something for yourself out of the proceeds. Anything you want.’
Donatella eyed her husband, a slight smile curving the corner of her red lips.
‘I’ll think of something, Giovanni, I promise.’
12
The church was beginning to fill up as Luca helped usher the well-dressed guests to their seats. The candles flickered atmospherically in their holders along the aisle and at the altar, and the scent of the massed arrangements of lilies filled the air.
After Signor Bianchi’s offer, Luca had prayed with Don Edoardo for guidance and they had both come to similar conclusions. They had decided this offer was a gift from God. How could it be anything else? If they accepted it, restoration work c
ould begin on the church immediately.
Don Edoardo came bustling up to him. ‘I think most of our guests have arrived and our performers are ready. Luca, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. It seems as if, from the day you walked into my church, you’ve brought nothing but blessings upon it.’
‘It’s God who brought me here, Don Edoardo,’ Luca replied gently.
‘I know, and may He bless you also.’ He patted Luca’s shoulder and made his way down the aisle. Luca followed him and caught the eye of his sister sitting in one of the front pews with the rest of the performers. She gave him a small wave and he winked back. Then Luca saw a familiar tall, dark-haired figure in a dinner jacket hurrying down the aisle. He turned away, fighting back his automatic revulsion. Nothing would spoil tonight for him. Nothing.
Don Edoardo and Paolo de Vito climbed the steps and stood in front of the altar.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Don Edoardo, ‘thank you for joining us here on this very special night. It is the time of year for celebration: of resurrection, of rebirth, which is what we hope to achieve also for our church. May I say a particular thank you to The Friends of the Milan Opera for making this evening possible. And now Signor Paolo de Vito, the artistic director of La Scala, is here to introduce the programme.’
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.’ The audience clapped as Paolo addressed them. ‘To begin our programme, may I present the students of the scuola di musica, singing the sextet from Lucia di Lammermoor.’
Paolo left the steps and six students made their way to the front of the church. They arranged themselves before the beautifully dressed altar, and the recital began.
Roberto, however, paid no attention to the setting and hardly listened to the music. He was staring in fascination at Donatella, who was sitting on the other side of the church beside her husband. Roberto wondered if they still made love; he supposed they must do occasionally. It was amazing what money could buy, he thought, as a polite round of applause came from the audience and the first students took their bows.
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