The Lazarus Mysteries- Omnibus Collection Page 6

  CHAPTER 9

  Monasterio de San José de Nazaret

  Nr. Segovia, Spain

  1604 A.D.

  Brother Alfonso arose early. The sky remained dark and a million pin pricks of light were beginning to surrender to the approaching day.

  He shaved using cold water and the one small broken mirror he was allowed for doing so. He never liked what he saw in the reflection. The marred face staring back at him was thin, bony, and dominated by a squashed nose that had spread like a flounder – the result of an agitated disbeliever when he was a young monk. His skin had grown blotchy and his face and arms had a spread of red and bulbous lesions like mud bubbles in a pond. The disease remained, but his impetuous days had gone. His world now was of the spirit, of contemplative beatitudes.

  He walked across the grey flagstones of the Square of the Blessed Virgin. The fine mist of early morning rain from nearby hills dampened his brown scapular as it flapped across his white tunic. He pulled up his hood and tightened the rope-tie around his waist. On this special day, he needed an extra hour of solitary contemplation before first prayers.

  Seated on a long, low oak bench, he recited the Psalms asking for purity and cleansing. He needed to be viewed as worthy for what was about to happen this day. He reviewed his life before he succumbed to the call of God—his lusts, his rampant sexuality, his greed, his imperfections from the day of his birth forty-two years ago, then to his undying shame, he had been branded a bastard. A sense of sanctity filled him. For over twenty-five years, he had rebuilt his life, attempting to erase the follies of his past. They paraded through his mind like water cascading over some giant fall. He had followed the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. Had he not devoted himself to the Rules of the Monastic Knights that had shaped his life and made him willing to defend Christ’s sacred Order to the death?

  Lord, inflame our hearts and our inmost beings with the fire of Your Holy Spirit, that we may serve You with chaste bodies and pure minds. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

  Tonight, there would be a reward for him for his toil. The Abbey’s secret, guarded with jealous zeal, was to be made known to him.

  Wiping away tears, he bent his head low and pulled the hood of his habit further over his head. It would be a long day and night, but he was ready.

  Later that evening, the two large wooden gates that sealed off the monastery from its outside perimeters, swung open in a cacophony of creaks and groans to reveal the surrounding hills, bathed in hazy moonlight and standing like tired sentinels. In the middle of the exiting procession and surrounded by twelve monks, each wearing a white cloak emblazoned with a black eight-pointed cross, walked Brother Alfonso. Weighed down with a sense of unworthiness, he lost himself in spiritual contemplation. The slow-moving column was led by the upright and dignified figure of Grand Master, Abbot Aelred.

  They descended a rocky gulley before passing through a narrow cleft that led into a hidden cave. The light of their flaming torches cast exaggerated shadows off damp pockmarked walls, punctuated with crucifixes and images of the Blessed Virgin. Alfonso drew a sharp breath of astonishment. For all his years at the monastery, he’d not known of this place. He had an increasing sense that this was no ordinary secret.

  The procession, led by the Abbot, took up the Templar’s chant, Salve Regina. Misty breaths arose as a deep resonance filled the descending cavern. Alfonso quivered, his body shaking with an intoxicating emotion he’d never experienced before.

  This was being done for him.

  They moved through numerous passages and tight tunnels before the flickering torches lit up a central area that echoed with a thousand chants from ages past. One monk went to the left and the other to the right, until they formed a semicircle with Grand Master Aelred centrally placed. In front of him, concealed by a large gold mantle emblazoned with a black cross, stood something ... he had no idea what. It stood on a low altar surrounded by candles.

  The chant came to an end.

  Silence engulfed the cavern like a grave.

  “Brother Alfonso, step forward and kneel before what you do not understand.” The Abbot’s voice reverberated around the clammy walls glistening with the flicker of torchlight. He gestured to where Alfonso should kneel.

  Alfonso moved forward, hesitating before he reached the spot.

  “There is nothing to be afraid of, Brother. There is only joy to be welcomed. You have been considered worthy by the council that now stand around you. You are to be one of us. Your vows have been wholeheartedly fulfilled, and what we cherish, protect, and would willingly lay down our lives for now stands before you. What you will witness is our sacred secret, never to be revealed. Do you, Brother Alfonso, with your immortal soul to forfeit if you break this trust, swear to uphold your vows to God and of us Holy Knights, to help spread the goodness and healing you are about to be privy to?”

  “I swear it.” Alfonso’s voice had descended to a low but loud disembodied whisper.

  “Then look now.” The Abbot lifted his arm and in one swift movement removed the gold covering cloth, letting it drop to the floor.

  Before he lapsed into unconsciousness, Alfonso saw a large intense painting shimmering in shades of purple and yellow, depicting Lazarus stepping from his tomb and reaching out to the resplendent figure of Christ. From Christ’s eyes shone a dazzling white light that Alfonso knew could not be paint. It physically glowed.

  It was real!

  The eyes shone and looked straight into his own.

  CHAPTER 10

  Looking through the lens at the dark yellow signature scrawled across the bottom of The Leper’s Redemption, Brodie looked puzzled. “Ulla, am I seeing things? What do you make of this?” He jabbed his finger at the photograph and handed her the lens.

  She peered long and hard at the signature. Around the feet and ankle of the leper were clay pots, urns, and small glass bottles, and from one appeared to be emerging an evil looking snake, its forked tongue forming an inverted heart resembling a bottle label. The label completed Cortez’s signature.

  “I see what you mean. It’s as if Cortez was making a statement. The snake’s tongue clearly spells out, Bodegas de and that is above his signature of Cortez.”

  “A clue of some sort? The evils of drink, message in a bottle, or was there a wine-making concern called Cortez? Could even be a Conquistador —let’s check it.”

  A Google search revealed the name Cortez as the sixty-fourth most used Hispanic name. Clearly not prolific. In the immediate area, though, there were just a handful. Then came the clue they had been looking for.

  Thirty minutes later, Ladro and Stuart were driving north-west of Toledo. Their objective lay an approximate twenty kilometres distant. The Bodegas de Cortez.

  Brodie whistled. “If this place has anything to do with Cortez, the medieval artist, then that will be one amazing coincidence.”

  “We’re soon going to find out.” Ulla looked up into the driving mirror. “Oh no!”

  “What?” Brodie grimaced

  “Look behind.”

  Brodie turned around. “Is it the same blue car as last time?

  “It is. What do we do?”

  “Nothing. My bet is they’re reporting back to Throgmorton. If and when we find something, then they’ll make a move. I guarantee it.”

  “I’ll give them a friendly wave.” Ulla lifted a finger and waved it with vigour at the following car. It dropped back. “Now they know we’re on to them.”

  The car didn’t pursue them when they turned to follow a signpost with a large black index digit, directing them to Bodegas de Cortez. It led up a narrow track leading into a private estate and a vineyard. They watched the car behind them pull up into a nearby lay-by.

  “What’s the betting that when we come out, they’ll still be there waiting?” Ulla swung the wheel to avoid a large pothole.

  They drove past row upon row of symmetrically planted low bush vines that led up a gentle gradient towards the small main bui
lding and its equivalent car park. A barrier stood in front, bearing the company logo.

  “Look familiar?” He indicated a large yellow coloured inverted heart garlanded with vine leaves.

  The complex was far from a simple rustic set up. In one direction stood numerous outbuildings and rows of tall stainless-steel vats, looking like columns of armoured knights. Built with ancient bricks and featuring arches, the main building had a small restaurant where the reception area and visitor’s centre were located. It was surmounted by a towering spire on which a weather vane dominated, featuring the same vine leaves around which curled a large snake.

  Ulla gave a small gasp. “This is getting spooky.” She brought the car to a stop, and they slipped on their Gordian Knots ID tags. No sooner had they stepped out when a petite, pretty woman with a sunny smile walked towards them from the front entrance.

  “Buenos Días. Bienvenido a Bodegas de Cortez!”

  “Thank you. My name is Ulla, and this is Brodie.” They shook her outstretched hand. “Evita,” Ulla had read her name tag, “I’ll get to the point. We’re not here for the wine. We are researching a lost Spanish artist by the name of Cortez and we’re wondering if we may speak to the owner?”

  Evita stiffened, lost her smile, gave them a probing gaze, but managed to say, “I will see. Señor Cortez is usually very busy. Please wait.” She turned and walked back in.

  They both looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

  Some minutes later, the door swung open and a slight wiry man stepped out. He looked like a septuagenarian but held himself upright. “I am Raúl Cortez,” he said, moving towards them with a suspicious glint in his eye. “What is it you want?” His voice was snappy, and he didn’t offer his hand.

  Ulla thanked him for his time and showed him her company ID tag. Cortez read it but remained impassive. She went on to explain their mission.

  “Not much is known of him. Only three paintings are acknowledged to exist, but it was suspected there were others.” Still, Cortez retained an aloof, poker faced expression.

  Brodie interrupted. “Señor Cortez, tell me what you make of this.” He pulled the photograph out of his briefcase, together with the lens. He thrust it at the old man, pointing to the leper’s ankle and the signature. “Now look at it through the magnifier. Tell me that’s not the same as your company logo.”

  Cortez pushed it away without a glance. “There is no need for me to look, Señor.”

  “But...”

  “Follow me, please.” He turned, signalled with a small wave of his arm, and walked to the swing door, holding it open for them.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was smiling,” Brodie whispered.

  Raúl walked at a brisk pace. His shoes clip-clopped across a highly polished wooden floor until he came to a halt before a small central wooden doorway at the far end of the room. He reached for a key hanging an arm’s length above.

  “We are nearly there,” he said without explanation and still with a trace of a smile.

  The door creaked open to reveal an oak panelled room with a vaulted and beamed ceiling. An array of glass display cases and what looked like a library collection, spread out along the walls. He ushered them in.

  “Our museum.” He gestured around the space. “I’m sure you are wondering why you are here.”

  “Why are we here then?” Brodie didn’t know whether to smile or scowl.

  “Please sit while I explain.” He led them to a small sofa. “I’ll get to the paintings in a moment. The Cortez family have been producing wine as far back as the thirteenth-century, if not before. Around you here are examples of what we have produced through the ages: the equipment, bottles, and glasses that helped us to the finished product. As you will see, we have kept bottles of unopened wine for centuries. But this is not why you are here. The painting in the photograph you attempted to show me, I am well aware of.” He paused as Evita walked in with a tray on which stood a bottle of Tempranillo and three large tulip shaped glasses. Without asking, she poured and handed out the wine.

  “Our finest,” she half whispered.

  “You are correct, Señor Ladro. It is true that the painting in your photograph depicts our emblem and it has not changed since it was first introduced back in the middle ages.” Raúl Cortez paused, ran his hand through his grey hair, tilted his chin, and looked at them both with an enquiring expression.

  He’s teasing us. Ulla leant forward. “I don’t doubt that what you say is true, Señor. The signature of Francisco Cortez suggests he must have been part of your distant family and therefore you, Señor, are a direct link to him.”

  “What more can you tell us?” Brodie asked with an expectant look

  Again, the pause, as Raúl took a long sip of his wine. “Yes, all that you say is true.”

  Another lengthy silence.

  “What I’m about to tell you, only a few know. I think the time for that is now over. The paintings at El Prado, shown in your photographs, were not Francisco’s true intentions.”

  “What are you implying?”

  “He repainted them rather than make alterations or adjustments. El Prado, in my opinion, holds inferior versions. There can be no doubt that he had intended to paint something else. I like to think that in the versions you are about to see, his true intentions are hinted at.”

  Ladro looked across at Ulla whose jaw had dropped.

  “What! There are others?”

  “Say nothing.” Raúl had a grave expression as he raised a hand, his palm stretched out towards them. “Francisco, as I told you and the records show, painted two of each; of the Leper and of the Gadarene Swine. He was unhappy with his first attempts. He refused to alter them but elected to redo them for reasons we can now only guess at. The Cortez family, from generation to generation, became keepers or guardians of his true paintings to this day.”

  “You have the paintings and records, Señor Cortez?” said Brodie, aware of a familiar and accelerating excitement.

  “Please be patient ... Evita, would you?” He signalled to her and pointed to the panelled wall.

  Evita nodded, said nothing, and moved across to dim the lights. She reached down behind a small cupboard and there followed the sound of a switch. Two large panels on the opposite wall slid silently open, one to the left and the other to the right. Overhead, halogen picture lamps shone down and illuminated side by side The Leper’s Redemption and The Swine of the Gadarene

  Ladro gave a low whistle. “Phew! They look so much bigger.”

  “That’s because they are. They are twice the size of the two held by El Prado.”

  “Your emblem is clearer on the signatures and so are the black crosses and those initials. Let me check for other differences.” Brodie held the photographs against the paintings. “Yes, look here, Ulla.” Brodie skimmed his finger over the pointing arm in the photograph. “Look, the fingers are pointing downwards. Now, look at them on this painting—the hand is positioned upwards and the index finger points towards a small hill on the distant horizon.” He bent his head closer. “And look, there’s a suggestion of a building there. Can you make it out?”

  Ulla squinted hard. “Without the lens, I would say it’s an abbey, monastery or church.”

  “Well, it’s certainly not a synagogue because that’s an unmistakable cross there.”

  “What’s it doing there? Historically, it’s out of context. The continuity is wrong.”

  Raúl stepped back. “Look at the swine now. What do you see?”

  Brodie quickly counted. “On your painting, there are thirteen of them, and the El Prado version shows twelve. Look, what’s that man doing?”

  “He’s pointing at what looks like the same building as in the other painting. It seems also to have been placed in exactly the same spot. What is it?”

  Ulla, using her tablet, took several close-up photographs of the area around and including the building.

  Raúl turned to Evita. “Please.”

  Ev
ita closed the panels and restored normal lighting. “Somebody has come into the reception. I must see to them. Please excuse me.” She gave the hint of a smile and walked out.

  “You say you are looking for Francisco’s missing paintings. You’ve now seen two.” Raúl’s brow wrinkled and he pointed a finger at them both. “You say that’s your intention, but I suspect there is something else you are looking for. Am I correct?”

  Ulla raised her eyebrows and looked across to Brodie.

  He looked down at the floor, then lifted his head and nodded. “You’ve been very frank with us, Señor, and yes, you’re right, there is something else. There is rumoured to be a missing last work. It is alleged by some to have miraculous powers. Personally, we doubt the truth of that, but our client is insistent we locate it—should it exist at all. What you have shown us is amazing and gives us some hope. If we’ve been less than truthful, please accept our apologies.”

  Cortez leaned back in his chair, placing his chin on his hands. “None of us here have time for extensive research. I know of your company Gordian Knots from television. Maybe we could help each other. I have here the Cortez archives since the late thirteenth-century. They do contain reference to the Cortez line, and it includes Francisco and his parents. There are also personal diaries and his early sketches and thoughts. These, I imagine, would be invaluable in attempting to find what you are looking for. You would not get far without them.”

  “We are contracted to another party, Señor, but what would you expect from us?”

  “All we ask is that … anything you discover should belong to the Cortez family.” He pointed to a vast, glass fronted bookcase that stood in permanent semi-darkness. It contained rows of hefty volumes, scrolls, diaries, almanacs, and ledgers—the Cortez family records. “If you agree, you can have unlimited access.” He extended his hands with open palms. “Is that acceptable? If so, Evita will be at hand to assist you in every way, and I will draw up a contract.”

  “We weren’t expecting this, but if Ulla agrees, we’ll do it.”