by Scott Hunter
“Chief Inspector,” Vagnoli smiled. “Please, be seated. I have no issue with your questions.” He indicated the empty seat beside him.
“Thanks, I’ll stand if that’s all right with you.” Moran took in the heavy accent, the posture, the confident gesture; signs of a man at ease with himself and his situation. A man with power, he imagined. Used to getting his own way. Persuasive, clever. Best tread cautiously . . .
“I am praying for the soul of Father Horgan,” Vagnoli said in a solemn voice, head bowed. “I am sorry I did not have the opportunity to speak with him face to face.” He looked up. “This afternoon we laid our brother to rest in the cold earth.” Vagnoli indicated the door of the abbey church. Moran could hear the wind rattling the hinges and wondered briefly if Neads had found his way through the woods, but Vagnoli had risen to his feet and joined Moran by the altar.
He was tall, the impression of height exaggerated by the scarlet, floor length robes. The Italian monk made an open-handed gesture. “It is so final, yes? We live as though life will go on forever, but it is not so. It is a terrible delusion. Like the struzzo – the flightless bird, what is its name in your language? Like the poor bird, we bury our heads.” He made a swift ducking motion to illustrate the analogy.
“The ostrich.”
“Yes, just so, Inspector. The ostrich. A foolish bird, trying to escape the inevitable.”
“No one likes to talk about death, Father Vagnoli. Especially a violent one. It has a way of reminding people of their mortality. And it also makes them very afraid.” In his mind’s eye, Moran saw Kay turning the ignition key, flame blossoming from the engine. He gave his head a firm shake to dispel the image. Pull yourself together, Moran. He gritted his teeth, waiting for Vagnoli’s response.
Vagnoli was watching him with interest. “Afraid, of course – of the unknown and the unseen. We all strive to make sense of life, but only in death are the answers we seek revealed. A fascinating paradox, Inspector, is it not?”
“You Catholics have all the answers, don’t you?” Moran felt a knot of anger twist in the pit of his stomach. “All neatly sewn up in Mass, confession, good works.”
“Do I perceive the animosity of a lapsed Catholic in your words, Inspector?”
Moran shrugged. “Is it that obvious?”
“My impression is that you have yet to conclude your theological considerations.” Vagnoli raised his finger. “Because anger in a spiritual context usually means a person is struggling with God. For you, the search for meaning is far from over.”
“My search is for the murderer of one of your colleagues, Cardinal Vagnoli. I have little time for personal reflection.”
“Is that entirely honest, Inspector?”
Moran exhaled in frustration. Vagnoli seemed to discern the doubt churning in Moran’s wounded soul. It was discomfiting. The last thing Moran needed now was spiritual counselling. To deflect the Italian’s papal darts he refocused his questioning.
“You’re not concerned that there may be a killer at large in the abbey? That an unknown body, perhaps buried decades ago, has been exhumed in the chapel?”
“Concerned?” Vagnoli joined his hands behind his back and moved slowly down the length of the church with long, measured movements. Moran was obliged to walk in step with Vagnoli’s lengthier stride, feeling like a destroyer escorting a slow-sailing battleship.
Vagnoli shook his head as he walked. “Your killer will not be here, Inspector. He will have gone – pouf!” Vagnoli elevated his arms in a conjurer’s exaggerated motion, towering over Moran. “Far away from here and his guilt.”
“You don’t think one of the brethren–”
“I do not speculate, Inspector. To do this would be to trespass on your territory. But, for what it is worth, no, I hesitate to suspect a member of the community. An outsider, or an opportunist, perhaps? I can only express my regret at arriving at such an inopportune time, but although an outsider, I am no murdering opportunist – if such a thought had entered your mind. And this other body – you say it happened a long time ago, so–” Vagnoli turned down the corners of his mouth and showed Moran the palms of his hands. “It cannot be something I am involved with, Inspector – this is my first visit to Charnford. What happened in the past is outside my knowledge. My advice would be to begin your search for the killer among those associated with the school and community, not the community itself.”
“You’re aware that the school is in financial difficulty?” Moran probed. Horgan would most likely have mentioned the reason for his willingness to part with Charnford’s holy artefact. But had Horgan revealed anything else to the Italian?
Vagnoli pursed his lips. “Of course. Father Horgan outlined his predicament on the telephone. This was his motive for calling me about the sacred Titulus in the first place.”
“You’re aware that the abbot disapproves.”
Vagnoli laughed. “Father Boniface has made his intolerance of my presence well known, Inspector. Everybody is aware. The other monks, they are friendlier.”
“Does Father Boniface’s attitude bother you?”
“I have come to make a – how is it you say? A negotiation. The Holy Father is most interested in the Titulus, as you may imagine. I would therefore disappoint His Holiness by returning empty-handed. This, you understand, I do not wish.”
“You intend to stay until the relic is found?” Moran knew the answer to that already –Vagnoli was clearly not a man in a hurry. His whole demeanour exuded limitless patience. Well, you’ll have to wait until I’m good and ready before you get your hands on it, Cardinal . . .
Vagnoli halted and raised his arms outwards and upwards, the sleeves of his robes creating an illusion of dark, spreading wings. “For as long as The Most High and His Holiness upon Earth desire, I shall remain at Charnford.” He bowed and raised his head with a smile.
Moran nodded, noting the Italian flair for the dramatic. “And the earthbound Inspector Moran also requests that you remain for the time being, if you would oblige me.”
Vagnoli raised his hand, forefinger extended. “Of course. But, Inspector, you have said that the school is in difficulty? I have to point out to you that the community itself may not be in the same – boat? Is this the correct . . . vernacular?” He enunciated the word with relish.
Moran frowned. “Meaning?”
“Meaning, Inspector, that there are at least sufficient funds within the abbey for the commissioning of a new library building.”
“Oh yes?”
“Some hundreds of thousands of pounds, I believe.”
In the distance Moran heard the sound of approaching sandals. The monks were assembling for their evening liturgy.
“It is time for my brothers to attend Vespers.” Vagnoli acknowledged the interruption with a brief smile. “I must join them, Inspector. Please do not hesitate to – winkle me out – for further questioning.” Vagnoli smiled with pleasure at his recall of another quaint English expression.
Candle flame flickered from the abbey cloister as the monks entered the church two by two, cowls drawn over their faces, arms folded beneath their habits.
“Thank you for your time, Cardinal Vagnoli.” Moran left the monks to their prayers. His instincts told him that Vagnoli was innocent of Horgan’s blood. There was no apparent motive; in fact, it would have been detrimental to Vagnoli’s mission to cause Horgan any harm. Interesting about the library funds, though. Whatever deficit the school was struggling to manage, it seemed that the abbey had no such financial embarrassments. Moran wondered if Horgan had been aware of this anomaly, and how closely the school and abbey worked together regarding such delicate worldly concerns. Perhaps the headmaster could shed some light.
He glanced at his watch. Neads should be returning from the wilds in half an hour or so. The DS had looked furious when Moran sent him off. That pleased Moran. Neads needed a kick up the rear. Somewhere in there was a good copper, even if the cocky so-and-so’s current remit was stitching up h
is acting senior officer. But Moran wasn’t going to let that happen, and DS Neads would suss that out soon enough, even if he had to learn the hard way.
Moran found his way to the school entrance. No one was about; teachers and pupils had deserted Charnford Abbey in favour of their homes, and the monks in favour of communion with their God. Moran twisted the wrought iron circlet, pulled the oak doors open and stepped outside.
Under normal circumstance it would have been a magical scene. All around was a landscape of white, the stillness absolute. Moran stood for a long time thinking about his brother, the pointless, wasted years, and the extraordinarily unpredictable renaissance that had cruelly been denied him.
As Neads pushed on through the open field towards the dark maw of the woods he busied himself with vengeful thoughts and wove elaborate fantasy scenes in his mind of a time beyond the investigation. He imagined the pub gathering, the slaps on the back, the shaking heads as he outlined Moran’s incompetence and how he, Neads, had grabbed the baton and run with it, leaving the older man trailing. He imagined the Chief’s nodding approval and the admiration of the WPC from Fraud who’d given him the eye last week. Fit enough, that one: Redhead, nice figure, come-on-baby expression.
Neads picked up his stride, fired by the image. The going was hard, though. He had to admit he’d never experienced weather like this. His face was buffeted by stinging tendrils of snow, blowing across his bare cheeks like an icy flail. His boots were leaden, each step an effort. Just a few metres to the woods. Neads bent his head and pushed into the wind, willing himself into the cover of the trees. No way Moran could have made it in this. Old timer.
Neads trudged on. The whipping wind retreated. He was in the woods. Peering ahead, Neads was heartened to find the lights of the village dimly visible, winking through the persistent curtain of white. His boots crunched the fresh snow, finding a new rhythm now that he had escaped the blinding flurries.
He was thinking about the funeral, annoyed afresh that Moran hadn’t let him supervise the removal of the skull. Still, he’d spent time thinking instead. He’d been concentrating on what Bagri had said at the autopsy. About the smell, the knife polish. Thing was, they didn’t use knife polish in the Charnford kitchen . . . odd, that. The head cook was dead against it. Neads had been sure the knife had come from the kitchen, but no one had reported any utensils missing either. Remus had every damn thing itemised down to the last teaspoon. Not one piece of cutlery unaccounted for. That’s what he’d been thinking about: the important stuff, not some irrelevant ancient mystery, however intriguing it might be. What possible bearing could the skull have on Horgan’s murder? Just someone messing around. A red herring.
The path dipped sharply, catching him unawares; Neads stumbled and pitched forward awkwardly, his right leg going one way and his left sliding beneath him. His full weight bore down on the trapped limb and he felt his ankle snap like a rotten twig as he made contact with the ground. He screamed and grasped the broken joint to steady it and ease the electrifying pain.
“Damn, damn, damn. Shit!” He howled his frustration to the wind. Unbelievable. Un-bloody-believable. He slid forward on his bottom and reached for a nearby sapling in an effort to pull himself upright, but the resultant spasm telegraphed by his unsupported ankle caused him to roll backwards in agony. His coat was now soaking wet, clinging to his freezing skin, driving out any remaining warmth.
Neads told himself to remain calm. This was what training was all about. He was only a comparatively short distance from the safety of either the village or the monastery. All he had to do was keep cool. He grunted a nervous laugh at his unintentional pun. That’s the spirit, Gregory. Be positive in negative situations, his training officer had exhorted. Use available resources . . . speaking of which, there was his mobile. He felt in his pocket, pulled it out. It was dead. Neads pushed buttons to no avail. He must have fallen on it. It didn’t matter; he didn’t need it. He took a deep breath and tried to stand. This time the pain wasn’t as bad; perhaps the cold was helping. He took a deep breath and hopped forward. His right foot skidded and he fell backwards with a bone-jarring crash that sent fresh waves of pain and nausea through his body.
He lay stunned for a few moments and blinked rapidly as he realised that his face was half-covered in snow. If he’d lost consciousness he could have been buried alive . . . No one would have spotted him, and Neads knew all about hypothermia. The thought galvanised him into action. He slid forward again, this time with slightly more success in that he made a metre or more before the pain made him stop, but then he realised that he had a more serious problem: he had lost all sense of direction. The village lights had disappeared and he had no idea which way he had come. Deep snow covered the footprints he had made before his fall, and it was now snowing harder than when he had set out.
Clamping his chattering teeth together in determination, Neads hauled himself forward in what he prayed was the right direction. The pain from the lower half of his leg had become excruciating – maybe he had a more serious fracture than just a broken ankle. The thought panicked him, and it was a minute or so before he was able to pull himself together. He tried yet again to make meaningful progress but the going was too unpredictable, first sliding him one way, then running him into drifts the other. Eventually he lay back, exhausted. He felt his eyelids flutter; a feeling of lassitude overcame him. It was easier just to relax.
Over the next twenty minutes the falling snow drifted and settled, silently covering Neads’ boot tracks, enclosing his body in a white cocoon.
Chapter 12
Phelps pressed the rubberised answerphone button for the third time, frowning and shaking his crew-cut head. It didn’t make sense – but then, in a disturbing sort of way, it did. He listened again to the clipped and professional tones of Professor Charles Sturrock, Senior Lecturer in Archaeology at Reading University.
‘Hello Brendan. Long time no see. Still, busy men, eh? Now then, this – ah – object you had delivered to me recently. Most extraordinary. I’ve had a good look at it, conducted a few checks – all quite thoroughly, as you’d expect, so don’t worry on that account. I dealt with it myself, as instructed. No third parties and so on.’
Sturrock cleared his throat before continuing. ‘Now then, let’s be precise. It’s hit the time scale at first century, according to the carbon dating. I’m quite confident about that for various reasons that I’ll explain when we meet, but one of the most compelling is that the wood has been whitened, or stuccoed, in the same way that the Romans typically used when they manufactured wood panels bearing laws or names. They are usually referred to as ‘alba’. The script is exactly what you’d expect from a military Roman governor of that period when processing an execution order. As you know, the remnant is just that – a fragment of an original notice, or to give it its correct term, a titulus. The actual script, the surviving lettering or the causa poenae, I believe, reads like this:
REX IUDAEORUM
‘This accords with another supposed fragment of Christ’s Titulus which is kept in the church of Santa Croce, near Rome. The damaged lettering on that fragment has been proposed to read ‘Jesus the Nazarene’. The order of languages is also significant: Hebrew, Greek and Latin. We find the same order on the Charnford fragment, and, as the letters are more or less complete, I can be quite sure as to the correct translation.
‘Brendan, I believe this is as genuine a piece as I’ve ever handled, or am ever likely to handle come to that. And given the significance of its provenance, I must confess to being rather shaken and not a little excited. Still, I respect your request for tact and discretion, so not a word to Bessy, eh? I hope this has been of some help and, as I said, I’m only too happy to meet for a more detailed discussion when you’ve time. All the best Brendan. Bye for now.’
Click.
Phelps walked to the window, skirting round an overturned armchair. Place was a mess, but then that’s what squatters did, wasn’t it? Yellow scumbags. They’d run
for the hills after the explosion. Hadn’t even had the guts to come forward as witnesses. One of the buggers must have seen what was going on in the minutes that led up to the incident, but the Romanians had vanished like a morning mist.
Phelps went to the table and opened the answering machine, ejected the tape and dropped it in his jacket pocket. Had Moran deliberately neglected to mention this? Or was the answer more worrying still – that Moran himself had taken the Titulus and then, in some post-traumatic quirk of the mind, forgotten all about it? And if that were the case, what else might the guv be doing – or not doing – up at Charnford? Especially after the bad news he’d just received.
Phelps strode briskly to the front door and fished for his keys. He’d been lucky. His neighbours Ray and Helen were away for the week, and he was keeping an eye on things for them. Good neighbours. And, like all good neighbours, they swapped keys. House keys, car keys. Phelps peered into the flurrying snow. Ray’s Land Rover was almost covered – and he’d only been in Moran’s house ten minutes.
Phelps closed Moran’s front door and locked it behind him. Slitting his eyes against the gusting snow he scraped the windscreen with his sleeve and pulled himself into the driver’s seat. He had to get to Charnford before something bad happened, and he couldn’t help feeling that that was going to be very soon.
Moran’s head was throbbing as he made his way towards the kitchens. Something was bugging him, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. To do with the Irish connection. He was sure that Dalton’s association with Charnford ranged wider than just supplying the odd firearm on request. The presence of the maids – all Irish, all from the same county. There was an ongoing relationship between Charnford and County Cork. There had to be, and Dalton was the overseer, the provider of labour, favours, and – what else? Time to do a little research, Moran.
