Olivia laughed. ‘A rather more prosaic explanation than the original legend.’
Markham’s tone was sardonic. ‘That’s probably why the reigning pope didn’t allow the researcher to publish his findings.’
‘Ah, to preserve the miraculous tradition.’ His girlfriend smiled. ‘But I suppose there was some truth in it after all, with the Greek word for “angels” being angeloi, just like the name of the noble family.’
Markham scrolled back to his line drawing and contemplated it thoughtfully.
‘There’s something miraculous all right. When an underground passage was excavated beneath its walls in the 1960s, it turned out that the house had no foundations and just stood on a medieval road without any support.’
‘Spooky.’
‘They found the remains of hedges and bushes between the walls.’
‘How romantic.’
‘And there were scratch marks on the bricks of the house itself, showing it had been venerated in Nazareth in the fourth century.’
‘It all sounds pretty fantastic, Gil,’ Olivia said musingly. ‘But I suppose science will unravel the riddle.’
‘There must have been something to the story,’ Markham concluded. ‘Builders in the Middle Ages removed a supporting wall of bricks surrounding the original walls . . . which suggests that the house had been held in great honour and no expense spared to preserve it.’
‘If it had just been an ordinary pilgrimage site, it would have been torn down and rebuilt more magnificently, I suppose. So it must’ve been something special.’
‘Exactly.’ Markham squinted at the image in front of him then turned to face Olivia. ‘Spooky’s the word, sweetheart. If all these archaeologists and palaeographers are right, then there’s an exact correspondence of the Nazareth and Loreto footprints — place to place, site to site, space to space.’
‘Easy to see why someone might be drawn to this kind of thing.’ Gently, Olivia massaged his neck. ‘Archives, hidden documents, graffiti, secret spaces. It’s really quite addictive.’
‘But what’s the connection between aediculae and Helen Melville’s unsolved mystery?’ Olivia could feel the knotted muscles in her lover’s broad shoulders. ‘And where does that painting fit in?’
‘The one with the mausoleum?’ she asked continuing her gentle kneading. ‘Can you see the interior of the building?’
‘Not really.’ Markham exhaled ruminatively. ‘There’s a sort of raised black marble altar or sarcophagus inside this flat-roofed crypt with an arched portal and a flight of shallow steps.’
‘No skeletons or festering shrouds, then?’
‘No. Just your average squat Gothic mausoleum with this medieval couple — like Saint George and his bride — in the foreground and a bevy of angels waiting for them.’
‘Ah, angels again.’
‘Yep, and what looks like the yellow brick road leading to the emerald city.’ Markham gave an exasperated sigh. ‘All it needs is the Scarecrow, Tin Man and Cowardly Lion and you’ve got the Land of Oz to a tee.’ He broke into a reluctant grin. ‘Rebecca Summerson called it “ghastly mawkish tat,” and I think she may have had a point.’
His girlfriend giggled. ‘Now that’s no way to talk about sacred art, Gil. Anyway, I thought you said there were exotic birds not munchkins.’
‘Well there’s a whopping great peacock and a couple of doves or some such.’ He reached up to clasp her hands. ‘Oh, I know it’s meant to be an allegory of eternal life, but it’s the mausoleum that dominates the painting . . . like an evil little dungeon. You just can’t tear your eyes away. The heavenly stuff’s moonshine by the side of it.’
Olivia shivered. ‘“Here lies the sign that we shall break our prison; Amidst the storm he won a prisoner’s rest.”’
‘What makes you say that?’ Markham was startled.
‘I hardly know, Gil,’ she replied slowly, almost reluctantly. ‘Just the idea of life as a prison from which death releases us.’
A dungeon tomb. Confinement. Fetters.
Images far more compelling than the sunlit uplands of heaven promising a good and glorious life beyond the grave.
Markham gave himself a mental shake. Much more of this morbid musing and he wouldn’t be able to see his way clear.
Gently, he released Olivia’s hands. ‘I’m due a tour of the gallery this morning.’ He did his best to sound hopeful. ‘Helen Melville’s office or the archives room may throw up a connection.’ Stiffly, he got to his feet. ‘And we’re bound to get something from the interviews.’ His voice rang with a confidence that he was far from feeling. ‘Somebody must have seen something. She couldn’t have disappeared into that bloody freezer without anyone noticing.’
Neither of them mentioned the little boy who all those years earlier had slipped through the cracks never to be seen again.
Olivia looked at her lover with the tender soulful gaze that seemed as though she could not bear to let him go.
Whatever secrets lay hidden in that gallery, she knew Markham would never rest until he had dragged them into the light of day. The pledge had already been given to the dead woman, just as it had been given to countless others whose ghosts were never far away.
* * *
In the event, the tour didn’t prove particularly illuminating, though Markham experienced the same visceral shock as Gemma Clarke on his visit to the Pre-Raphaelite exhibits, their sudden rich colour packing an even greater punch after the miniaturized world of paintings hung on faded blue silk walls with powdered ladies and gentlemen posed decorously amid spindly furniture or pale stags. There was something almost obscene in the contrast between the anaemic tight-laced denizens of an earlier century and those flaunting, fleshly women with their rippling tresses.
He would have liked to linger and drink it all in. But Rebecca Summerson and Noakes padded closely at his heels so that in the end it was all just a glut of confused impressions. Even Helen Melville’s favoured painting failed to speak to him.
Likewise, the dead woman’s immaculately tidy office next to the staircase leading down from the first floor yielded nothing of significance. With a sinking heart, Markham guessed that the parallel search of her flat in Pelham Crescent being conducted by Kate Burton was likely to prove similarly unproductive. This was clearly an individual determined to give nothing away, though there was always the possibility that something useful might be unearthed in the digital trawl. Next of kin had been informed, but her surviving brother had emigrated to Australia so there was nothing to be gleaned on the family front.
To reach the archives room, the little group retraced their steps through the collection, giving Markham the slightly vertiginous feeling of time travel as they finally arrived at the Renaissance. Noakes was clearly underwhelmed by the room’s panorama of Christian art awash with chubby cherubs and colossi, contemplating its array of celebrated biblical characters with the prudish disapproval of a latter-day Cromwell. ‘Jus’ folk getting their kit off,’ he muttered to no one in particular. Before he could start denouncing the degeneracy of artists past and present, however, the facilities manager had whisked them through the door and into a narrow windowless passage. ‘It’s at the far end,’ she said, pointing to the end of the corridor but making no move to advance, as though struggling with some unconquerable aversion.
Markham looked at her curiously then courteously motioned her to lead the way.
There was something undeniably unsettling about the gallery’s deserted rooms and corridors, he thought. Like bodies without souls, all individuality and expression had departed, submerging them into one dead uniform repose. The impression of sepulchral gloom was only heightened by marble busts mounted in niches along their route, somehow like living sentinels and yet so unlike in their empty-eyed stillness and silence.
About halfway along was an alcove covered by a grille. There appeared to be nothing behind it.
‘What’s down there?’ Noakes asked, peering into the dusky interior.
> ‘Oh, I think there was some sort of recessed staircase for staff — so they could nip up and down between floors.’
‘Very handy,’ the DS said thoughtfully. ‘Why’d they wall it off?’
Markham sensed the question was unwelcome.
‘It was before my time really . . . renovations probably . . .’
And then Markham felt it.
The unmistakeable presence of evil there in that stuffy airless space.
He knew Noakes felt it too. The DS was looking around intently, almost sniffing the air as though to pick up a scent.
The scent of a predator.
Rebecca Summerson shifted uneasily. ‘There were all sorts of nooks and crannies. I think the idea was to let the daylight in . . . make the whole place more open plan, more accessible.’
Let the daylight in.
Markham stood very still. In his mind’s eye, he saw a figure crouching and slinking its way along the corridor. The image was so clear, he could see the dreadful shadow pausing at the entrance to the alcove. A tall shadow whose eyes looked and ears listened, busying its hands with something.
But he couldn’t see the face.
It was a feeling of dim uncertain dread.
The moment passed and they moved on.
The facilities manager paused before a nondescript door.
‘Here we are.’ Again that strange reluctance.
There was nothing inside which appeared to justify her discomfort.
Just an ordinary room lined on two sides with old-fashioned gunmetal filing cabinets, each of which had a typed inventory taped to its side. A photocopier and recycling bin stood against the third wall, while in the centre of the room was a plain conference table with two chairs.
Nothing to see.
And yet, thought Markham, Helen Melville had apparently dropped hints about finding something in the archives. Something which offered the key to an unsolved crime.
‘I wonder if you could take a quick look, Ms Summerson,’ he said quietly. ‘Give these filing cabinets the once-over . . . just to see if anything’s been obviously disturbed.’ He nodded to Noakes. ‘We’ll be just outside.’
Back in the corridor there was that same feeling of things being slow and aqueous and slightly distorted.
‘Creepy up here, ain’t it?’ Noakes observed. ‘She’s dead uncomfortable with it an’ all.’ He jerked a thumb in the direction of the archives room. ‘Watcha reckon to this corridor being the one where that little lad went missing?’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me,’ came the grim response. ‘The Carter files should shed some light.’ The DI raked a hand through thick dark hair. ‘But we need to keep an open mind. There may be no connection with Helen Melville.’
‘Bit of a rum do though, guv. The two of ’em copping it in the same building.’
It was an uncanny coincidence. And, as his team well knew, Markham mistrusted coincidences.
The air in the corridor was musty and stale. Markham felt a headache starting at the base of his skull. The desire to escape back to reality was overwhelming.
As if in answer to his prayers, Rebecca Summerson’s voice summoned the two men back to the archives room.
‘There is a file missing as it happens, Inspector.’
Markham’s pulses quickened.
‘Which one is that?’
‘The Lestrange papers.’ The woman looked genuinely puzzled, the aquiline features puckered. Tucking a stray blonde hair into her otherwise immaculate French pleat, she continued, ‘Donald Lestrange was a connoisseur and collector who died suddenly . . . oh, around five years ago. One of his interests was aediculae. He wrote a few articles on biblical antiquities that were quite well received.Tthe Holy House of Loreto that I was telling you about yesterday, that was one of his hobby horses. But I can’t see . . .’ Her voice trailed off uncertainly.
‘Could Ms Melville and Mr Randall have been consulting this material for their project on funerary art?’
‘Well, yes. But they’d have had no reason to remove the file.’ She gestured to the photocopier. ‘Staff are meant to photocopy anything they want to take away.’ It may have been the airlessness of the stuffy room, but she suddenly looked quite pale. ‘As far as I can see, nothing else seems to have been moved.’ Another nervous adjustment to her coiffure. ‘The gallery’s records are mostly computerized now. This room’s really just for overspill. Hardly anyone uses it these days . . . just the odd researcher looking for peace and quiet.’ Looking from one to the other, she added, ‘Perhaps the file’s just been misplaced or,’ with a happy flash of inspiration, ‘it might be somewhere in Helen’s office or her flat.’
‘We’ll carry out a thorough check, Ms Summerson,’ Markham replied easily, though the look he gave Noakes told the latter he had no expectation of finding the missing documents at either location.
Helen Melville had come upon something in the missing file which made her a threat. A threat that had to be neutralized.
Noakes ran a finger round the inside of his less than pristine collar.
‘I’m coming over all claustrophobic in here,’ he rumbled. ‘If we’re done with these files, is there any chance of a cuppa, luv?’
With alacrity, the facilities manager led the way back to the corridor and the trio once more made their way through various interconnecting rooms until they came to the main staircase adjacent to Room 13 which, so far as Markham could see, was pretty much a hotchpotch of styles in contemporary British art. Even the lure of his beloved Matchstick Man was not enough to distract Noakes from the pursuit of breakfast, however, so Lowry and various other gritty Northern artists flashed by without pause or comment. Rebecca Summerson, still unnaturally pale, looked only too happy to leave the artwork behind.
They reached the lobby and made for the café at its rear. ‘I’ll just locate the kettle and—’ The facilities manager broke off. ‘What are you doing in here?’
A chunky middle-aged woman with a badly styled butch haircut stood in the far shadows over by the semi-circular display cabinet.
Noakes moved forward. ‘This is a crime scene, luv,’ he said with ponderous joviality. ‘Sealed off for the foreseeable.’
The woman came towards them.
‘Hey up, didn’t I meet you yesterday?’ the DS asked with a sudden gleam of recognition.
‘That’s right. I’m Cathy Hignett, Ms Summerson’s PA.’ The voice was a surprisingly shrill sing-song which grated on Markham’s ear.
‘How did you get in?’ he asked.
The woman had a cast in one eye, which made it difficult to tell whether she was looking at him or something over his shoulder. With difficulty, the DI suppressed the urge to turn around.
‘Through the back door to the cloakrooms. I’ve got a key, see.’ The tone was defensive.
‘I’ll have that, luv,’ Noakes said cheerfully. Then, eying her denim overalls, ‘Seeing as you’re here, how about you fixing us up with summat. I could murder a bacon roll.’
Inwardly Markham raised his eyes to heaven, but neither woman flinched at the infelicitous phraseology. Rebecca Summerson sank onto a plastic chair as if oblivious of her surroundings while her PA disappeared behind the front counter into what was presumably the kitchen.
‘I expect you’ll be needing an office, Inspector,’ the facilities manager murmured faintly. ‘In the meantime, Cathy can see to hot drinks and so forth if that’s all right.’
Noakes looked at her approvingly. ‘More’n all right, luv.’
His expression brightened even further when, within a surprisingly short time, a tray with steaming mugs of tea and a plate of bacon doorstops was plonked down on the table in front of them.
‘Champion,’ the DS thanked the PA through a mouthful of toast. ‘Reckon this’ll set us up for the day.’
Rebecca Summerson shuddered delicately, darting anxious looks at her subordinate. ‘Perhaps Cathy and I should adjourn next door,’ she suggested. ‘That’s if you’ve finished with us.’
/>
‘You’ve been most helpful. Both of you.’ Ever the gentleman, Markham escorted them through the lobby to the entrance and watched as they crossed the paved courtyard that the gallery shared with the Central Library.
‘Think they needed to get their stories straight, guv?’ Noakes grunted on his return to the café.
‘Who can say?’ Markham’s gaze was brooding.
‘That Cathy might be expecting us to pin this on her lad . . . the one they said has special needs . . . Quasimodo.’
‘Bill Hignett,’ the DI amended repressively.
‘That’s the one,’ Noakes agreed, nothing abashed.
‘Well, time to hear what the staff have to say for themselves.’ Markham stood up, ignoring his subordinate’s reproachful glances at the remaining doorstop. ‘Maybe we’ll learn something more about this file that’s mysteriously disappeared.’
The two men walked slowly towards the entrance.
As they did so, Markham’s attention was drawn to a giant tapestry in a glass case hanging above the front door.
With a chill, he recognized the motif.
The Old Testament temptress Jael hammering a spike into the head of Sisera whom she had lulled into a trap.
Markham felt his brain thrill to its core, as though his own temples bled under the impact of that lethal nail.
Who were they looking for? Who had baited the trap for Helen Melville? Man or woman? Was their killer even now stalking another victim . . . sharpening a weapon?
Noakes, predictably, was unmoved.
‘Imagine sticking summat nasty like that right over the front door.’ He eyed the protagonists with disfavour. ‘Flashing her assets while clobbering some bloke through the head.’
Bromgrove CID’s answer to Simon Schama, thought his boss with wry resignation.
Detective Markham Mysteries Box Set Page 106