The Lazarus Mysteries- Omnibus Collection Page 9

  That brief moment haunted him. He knew Paloma’s ambition was for them to marry. In the past, he had alluded to it, but of late, had said nothing — not a hint. The last thing he had said was that the Abbot would be mortified if he knew what was on his mind. For good measure, he had added that her father would murder him if he found out.

  §

  The rain had stopped that afternoon as she turned off the muddy track towards the tumbledown barn they had taken to using as a rendezvous. Francisco was due to meet her there as they had arranged a week ago. She, as usual, had brought a basket of fruits, cheeses and meats. They would eat the food and what was left over, Francisco would take back with him. Either to Salvador’s studio or to the monastery. Paloma ducked under the overhanging branches, moving them to one side as she pushed open the rickety door of the barn.

  Rays of light filtered through gaps in the walls and roof. The barn was empty. It was, she thought, unusual.

  The rain must have kept him.

  She stood by the door, hoping to catch sight of him coming along the track. He’d always been the first to arrive.

  There was no sight of him.

  An hour had passed before she realised he wouldn’t be arriving. Her mouth had gone dry and she found herself sitting and then standing repeatedly, not knowing what to do. Butterflies fluttered in her agitated stomach. This hadn’t happened before.

  There’s something wrong.

  She made the decision to leave. On the way back, she would stop at Méndez’s studio on the pretext of seeing if there were any supplies he needed. Perhaps he would be there.

  Thirty minutes later, she entered the muddy street where the studio was located. She’d been there many times but this time her heart pounded with anxiety. Standing outside the door, she looked through the small window next to it. Candles were burning, so somebody was in. She took a deep breath and rapped hard on the door. When it opened, Salvador Méndez stood there, bespattered in paint and holding a large paintbrush in his hand.

  He looked annoyed. “Paloma?”

  “Sorry to interrupt you, Señor, but as I was passing, I wondered if there was anything you needed from our shop?” She couldn’t help herself from straining her neck a little to see if Francisco was there.

  His face relaxed and a thoughtful look took over. “Well, maybe our usual canvases wouldn’t go amiss. Can you do that?”

  “Of course, Señor. Will Francisco be collecting them?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. Haven’t you heard?”

  Paloma’s insides went cold. “Heard what?”

  “Good news. Tomorrow is his initiation ceremony. He’s to become a full monk of the Order so we won’t be seeing too much of him, apart from when I go up there.”

  Her heart sank like a wounded songbird. It was as if she was falling into a pit of black emptiness. “Dear God. Dear God. I don’t believe it. That can’t be true!”

  “Oh, it’s true alright, Paloma. I’ve spoken to the Abbot and so has his father. It’s all going ahead.”

  The colour drained from her face as she began to tremble. Without another word, she turned and walked away.

  Méndez stood there, looking puzzled. “I’ll be around tomorrow,” he shouted, but his words went unheard.

  §

  That night, Paloma’s fears and agonies multiplied. Her lover had betrayed her. He had not even told her, and he must have known what he was about to do. I love him. He loved me! It’s not true! It can’t be. How could he? He never told me. He said he loved me and would never leave me. I gave myself to him freely and he took what I offered. I’m finished. My life is over.

  Paloma lost herself in a surge of sobbing as she buried herself deep into a pile of blankets and straw. She now knew the unique agony of bereavement.

  A week came and went, and she had not seen or heard from Francisco. She had important news for him.

  I am pregnant.

  CHAPTER 15

  Valencia

  The Present Day…

  Catching a bus was easier than trying to park a car, so Ladro elected to use the service that skirted around the Turia River. The waters had been diverted in the sixties after severe flooding and transformed into gardens at the Plaça de la Mare de Déu. Commemorating that event was a central fountain with seven maidens around it, representing the tributaries of the former river. Close by, he could see the dome of the Cathedral. He didn’t know what he expected to find, but there was one painting he needed a good look at, Christ Crucified and the Mother Mary by Cortez.

  He got off the bus at the Cathedral and headed for the Almonina Gate entrance where there were throngs of people. He wasn’t surprised as it was the weekend. If the Holy Chalice, declared as authentic by the Church, can’t attract visitors, what would?

  The building had a nine-hundred-year history. Once inside, he could see it was crammed with religious artefacts, but all were overshadowed by the presence of the alleged ‘true’ Holy Chalice. Inside, the atmosphere oozed with religious sanctity, heightened by an overwhelming display of statues, gold, and the smell of incense.

  A service was being held in front, at a small side altar. About thirty people knelt in prayer and sacred music from a hidden organ floated around the pillars.

  He was determined not to be distracted.

  Ladro found the art of greater interest. He noted there were paintings by El Greco, Goya, Velázquez and Jacomart. But where was Cortez? There were numerous chapels set off from the main aisle and it had to be displayed in one of them. Each chapel had to be inspected.

  Most had been set up with the ducal funds of some long dead aristocrat. Most of the chapels were short on visitors, which gave him time to reflect. Only a week ago, he was prepared to pull out of this sort of thing, lose Ulla, and vanish into obscurity with nothing else to do but drink himself to death. She had been right. He couldn’t deny the buzz that fed his never-ending curiosity.

  There were times when it didn’t feel right, but being at a certain crossroad in his life, if he wanted to feel alive, he had no other choice. Ulla was made of harder stuff. She was never going to marry him, but together, as a pair, they worked and loved well. Doing what they were doing was the best it would ever get between them … and that took some beating. Nothing else came close.

  Every painting had to be inspected. It was tiresome, foot aching work, and after two hours, he began to flag. He found himself underneath the plain undecorated curvature of the dome that was supported by a display of Corinthian pillars. There were eight chapels, four on each side plus others, at least four more at the far end. He suppressed a groan.

  It had to be here somewhere.

  It was then he saw it in the first chapel on his left, named the Chapel of Saint Lazarus of Bethany.

  The painting was on the far wall behind the altar. The chapel was deserted, and not being religious, Brodie ignored protocol. He bent his head to look respectful, walked in, and decided not to waste time. There were rows of seats and a confessional that looked like it had never been used. Moving up behind the simple altar, he faced the painting head on.

  No doubt at all, it was the same as Throgmorton’s photograph which did the painting little credit.

  The work was full of vigour, life, and sadness, that was absent in the two-dimensional photograph. Muted colours flowed in and around the body of Christ, splattered with dark blood raised and congealed by a technique little used in those times ... a palette knife. Amazing.

  The red, white, and torn purple robes surrounded a mortified Mary, as she attempted to hold his body and wash away the blood.

  The figures looked alive, as if they could walk out of the paint and canvas that bound them. Ladro gave another start. Above the pattée and the mysterious letters KORL, next to his signature, stood a disconsolate figure of a woman. It was not visible on the shot he had. She pointed upwards, not at Christ, but in the direction of a distant hill on the horizon. On it was a small, almost indistinguishable building with what looked like a cross
mounted on it.

  It’s the same building as on the other two paintings Raúl Cortez has, but this time it’s a woman pointing, not a man. It’s so out of context. This whole affair is an enigma.

  He thought it profound with artistic ability, the equal of, if not better than many established Masters. It had a mesmerising quality full of clues and hints. He zoomed his lens in to take separate photographs of the hill, the signature, the woman, Christ and Mary. He took twenty shots.

  §

  El Prado Museum

  Madrid

  The Same Day…

  Ulla elected to travel to Madrid using the AVE high speed train from Toledo’s main train station. She boarded the nine-twenty departure and arrived in thirty-five minutes at the Atocha Renfe, the High-Speed Terminal in Madrid.

  From the station, she boarded the Metro, and within twenty minutes of arriving, was walking up the steps between the Corinthian columns and into the structure and magnificence of Spain’s finest eighteenth century building and a top world museum, El Prado.

  She had made the necessary arrangements beforehand. Passing under the curvature of the domed glass roof, she made her way to the reading rooms with her head kept down. She wasn’t a tourist to look at the art.

  One brief halt was all she allowed herself.

  She couldn’t pass by her favourite painting though. She had included it in her University dissertation—The Dog by Goya. She gazed at it and as it always did, it moved her. In less than a minute, she walked away.

  In the Reading Room, she had arranged for digital access to the archives and its 3500 boxes of documentation, the library catalogue, and further related papers and notes. Copies of what she wanted could be made available from the technical advisors on hand.

  She tapped out what she was looking for ... All information and documentation—Francisco Cortez, 16th Century. The Leper’s Redemption, The Swine of the Gadarene, et al.

  The two paintings flashed on the screen, allowing her to home in on every corner and detail. Raúl Cortez was correct. The two held by the museum were not identical to the two he held at the Bodega. The paintings were smaller, and the mysterious initials were absent. Ulla thought Raúl’s versions were superior. What interested her more was the information and documentation that followed.

  Francisco Cortez born in the district of Toledo circa 1541. Died...? Reputed to be the son of a vineyard owner.

  The museum holds two of his works, The Leper’s Redemption and The Swine of the Gadarene. (Neither on display). Another of his works, Christ Crucified and The Mother Mary is held at the Valencia Cathedral.

  It is known that he painted many more, but their whereabouts has remained a mystery to this day. It is suspected they belong to a closed monastic order. The few known examples are considered by some historians and art experts to be of outstanding quality, and forerunners of the later Impressionist movement. Many regard them as superior to such greats as El Greco and Velázquez. An aficionado had bequeathed them to The Museum.

  Attached is documentation relating to the two held by this Museum. Cortez left them behind in the studio of his tutor Salvador Méndez, the renowned Court and social painter, after he disappeared. [See attachment]

  It would suggest he was experiencing a crisis. What became of him is not known.

  Ulla clicked on the attachment. A faded and tattered document, presumably of parchment, flashed on the screen. It was hard to read although Ulla spoke perfect Spanish, and the language hadn’t changed much across the centuries.

  Señor,

  I have been a monk but eight months and I know not what I can do, for I have sinned greatly. My shame I cannot reveal.

  You need know that I am unworthy of my calling. I am also unworthy of the trust and time you placed in me. I have brought discredit to the Order and to the good name of your studio.

  I have made my confession to the Abbot. I am to do penance for forty days and nights in solitude, and I am to do one last painting. It is to be my last and is to reflect my remorse. After completion, I am forbidden ever to paint again.

  If I am found to do so, I shall be expelled and excommunicated. A just punishment for my sin and errors.

  I am uncertain if I can do this and the thought of it all besets me with the notion of not wanting to live.

  I give you two examples of my latest works...

  At this point, the translation ceased and was in harmony with the tattered original, where what was written had been shredded and obliterated beyond recognition.

  Oh wow, we make progress. Ulla called the technician over and asked for copies of all she had viewed. She realised that Cortez’s records and library back at the Bodega had to hold vital clues.

  She had time to look around further before her train departed for Toledo. Feeling at ease, she walked along the various galleries, entering deeper into the building, taking time to examine the exhibits. For a moment, she turned to look around, and twelve metres away, she saw a familiar face…

  It can’t be.

  Sir Maxwell Throgmorton.

  He was supposed to be in Vienna.

  There was another man with him.

  Seeing him unnerved her, and if he’d seen her, he was making no attempt to approach. She had two choices; to go over and speak or to avoid him. She chose the latter.

  This isn’t a coincidence.

  She thought about stopping and confronting him. What was the worst thing that could happen? The fact that he had allowed himself to be seen deterred her from doing that. Wherever she turned, they turned, keeping the same distance behind her. She quickened her pace and passed through a series of small galleries before taking a sharp left towards the exit.

  A tall man stood there, barring her way with folded arms.

  “What is this all about?” she shouted at him. He had no time to react. She walked straight up to him and before he could move, she rammed her knee hard into his crotch.

  He gave a sharp, surprised yelp followed by a groan and sank down on one knee, clutching his groin.

  People around looked aghast and began backing off as Ulla moved towards them, heading for the exit. She held up her Gordian Knots ID tag knowing that onlookers would assume it was a police or security tag. There were CCTV cameras everywhere and she knew what had happened would be recorded and security would be swarming like an army of ants in her direction.

  She had no intention of letting that happen. What Throgmorton was playing at left him with a bagful of heavy questions to answer.

  Beads of sweat gathered on her brow like tiny blisters. She could see the glass doors up front and the sunlight shining through, beckoning her. Nobody stopped her and moments later, she was out, pushing through throngs of people, past the souvenir stalls, and heading for the Metro.

  CHAPTER 16

  “Are you sure it was him?” Brodie asked as he paced around the hotel room.

  “I could have been mistaken but I’m not short-sighted.” Ulla looked puzzled.

  “I believe you. I’ve called his Vienna number several times and there’s no reply. It’s odd he never left a mobile number.” “No, it’s not odd. Looking back on what’s been happening, I’m sure that was deliberate.” She paused and he saw her querying look. “What d’you want to do? Whatever you decide I’ll go along with it. D’you want to quit, take the money and call it day? We’re in the spotlight here, and that’s something we both agreed we’d avoid at all times, for obvious reasons.”

  That, coming from Ulla, was atypical. She always saw projects through to the bitter end. And that included their extra-curricular activities.

  His reply was blunt. “No, I want to carry on. There’re two reasons; one, I want to mess up that devious slime ball and get him nailed one way or another. The second is, there’s something behind this story that’s nagging away at me. There’s a mystery here that’s crying out to be discovered. All my instincts are on full alert, and that’s rare.”

  The phone rang, cutting him short.

  Ull
a reached it first. “Hola. Ulla Stuart.”

  “Miss Stuart, Sir Maxwell speaking.”

  §

  Her gaunt fingers clacked along the string of rosary beads. She could no longer kneel without enormous effort. Condesa Maria Francisca de Toledo believed she was out of favour with God.

  Hail holy Queen, Mother of mercy...

  Her concentration wavered. The smallest task required effort. She put this down to her past sins. The thought of them had become overwhelming. God was punishing her.

  For too long she had flirted with suspect practices, had been tempted by other religions, and not of God and his Catholic church. She had lapsed and denied her baptismal and confirmational promises. She hadn’t attended confession for a decade. Now, she asked for mercy and prepared for surrender.

  Surely such action would bring release and a new life away from the humiliations of the cancer eating her body.

  She believed with a fervour that miracles did happen, were possible, and God would reward her. Hadn’t he directed her to the paintings of Francisco Cortez? Had she not located the chapel instantly in the very Cathedral where, of all places, Christ’s Holy Chalice was to be found? And why had she been led to learn of Francisco Cortez and the possibility of a miracle contained in his missing work?

  The answer was obvious. These were signs from God. He wanted her well, but repentance—lots of it—would be required. She knew that her contrition would not just be a few Hail Marys, Our Fathers and a matching number of Glory Be to the Father and the Creed. No, it would be heartfelt, sincere and nothing less than full devotion to Him. She will live her remaining life in an almost monastic condition.