Shroud of the Healer

by Christopher Wright

  Alain took the mug and placed it on the table. He shook his head slowly, lost in private grief. "I always thought nurses would know when they are sick."

  "She seemed all right last Sunday," said Zoé. "Although she did mention headaches. Did you know about them?"

  Matt would have started his coffee but he felt he should wait for Leanne's husband to begin to drink first. They were engaged in a cautious ritual and he was concerned not to offend Alain in any way; afraid of saying something ill-advised. He decided to keep quiet.

  "You are right. Leanne started to have such terrible headaches."

  "I am so sorry," said Zoé. "I told her to see the doctor."

  "But she was getting better, so she said."

  Matt drew a deep breath. He got the occasional headache. It was a scary thought, dying so quickly.

  "Did Leanne die at home?" asked Zoé.

  Inwardly Matt questioned the wisdom of Zoé's probing questions, but she was a nurse and should have developed some skills in talking to the bereaved.

  "She died at the clinic. Ah, I have not explained."

  Alain took his coffee at last, heavy trembling hands grasping the mug. Matt reached for his own.

  "Tell us if you want to," said Zoé.

  "Leanne came home early on Monday and was unable to stand up. She felt better on Tuesday and said she would go to work again. There were..." Alain Corbin shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "There were things she had to do, she said. She had made friends with the old nun they call Sister Angela. She wanted to talk to her."

  Zoé nodded encouragingly as Alain continued. "Leanne brought some things home that evening. Yesterday she went to work again, but promised she would go to the staff clinic and see the duty doctor about her headaches. They phoned me at the factory. She had been rushed into intensive care. I am a fitter, assembling agricultural machinery." He gestured with his hands, making a movement as though twisting a wrench. "I got there too late. Apparently her temperature rose during an emergency operation and she stopped breathing..." Alain Corbin came to a halt as his voice broke down. The end of his large moustache was wet with coffee and he dabbed at it with his sleeve.

  "You have a brother, I believe," said Zoé. "Leanne said he is a priest."

  "He lives here in Avignon. Yes, he is a good man and much help. I am fortunate to have such a brother. Before I forget, Leanne put some packages in the freezer. She was planning to give them to you on Sunday. Perhaps it is a little treat. She was always thoughtful."

  Matt nodded. He would hide his surprise that Leanne had mentioned them at all, for she had only known Zoé years ago.

  "Is there anything we can do?" asked Zoé. "You have your family to help you?"

  "I have my family, but apart from my brother we have never been close. There are no children, of course. I expect Leanne told you. Always we have wanted children."

  Matt kept his eyes on his coffee. This was hard going. "I am very sorry." It was all he could say.

  "You must give us your address and phone number," said Zoé.

  Ten minutes later Alain had gone. Matt stood outside in the narrow street watching the sad mechanic walk away in a daze. "I'd have gone with him if he'd let me. I hope he gets home all right."

  "Home?" queried Zoé. "He does not have a home to go back to any more. Just a house."

  Back in the kitchen the first thing Matt saw was the baguette, a sad reminder of a happy morning turned sour. There was no way he could face eating it now.

  "It will do him good to be out walking." Zoé seemed in a reflective mood. She took out her long silver flute and began to play a lament that was new to Matt.

  "What are you playing?"

  "It is a piece by the Czech composer Smetana. He wrote it on the death of his daughter."

  "Sounds sad."

  "It is sad." After a few bars Zoé paused. "It makes you wonder, I think, how each of us would cope. A few weeks of headaches, and then your partner is dead."

  "At least she got the best care, working at the clinic."

  "It is suspicious I think." Zoé continued to play, the most mournful music Matt had ever heard. Maybe it was the atmosphere rather than the music.

  "Suspicious?"

  Zoé put the flute down and came over to put her bare arms around his shoulders. "Leanne did not seem ill when we met her in the bar."

  Matt shook his head. "I said at the time that she sounded in a state. It makes sense now."

  Zoé's eyes flashed in outrage. "What do you know about the medical conditions?"

  "Let's not turn this into a row. If Leanne collapsed at work and one of the doctors put her into intensive care, he obviously thought there was a problem. And if she died, there must have been something pretty wrong. I know you're a nurse, but give the surgeon some credit for trying to save her. You've got to admit Leanne's behavior was ... unusual."

  "It is your fault," Zoé said suddenly. "You should have listened to her. There were things Leanne wanted to tell us, but you told her to go off and make the investigations of her own."

  Matt stood up and walked to the large glazed sink to rinse the mugs. "That's ridiculous." The tension was being broken by an angry exchange of words, as though a stupid argument would make things all right. "Leanne didn't know what she was saying; that's obvious now."

  Zoé put the flute back in its case and snapped the lock shut. "Obvious is it! You are the PI. You are supposed to use your eyes -- and you do not see the wrong things here?"

  He shrugged.

  "Matt Rider, you disappoint me. Do you not think it is possible that one of the doctors killed Leanne Corbin?"

  "Murder?" Matt shook his head. "PIs don't investigate murder. The gendarmes would have to go in."

  "I am not asking you to go in." Zoé came forward, grabbed hold of his arms and shook him angrily. "Leanne Corbin was a good nurse. For her sake do something."

  He tried to pull himself free. "I could make inquiries."

  Tears ran down Zoé's cheeks. "You could bug their phones."

  Matt shook his head. "And what would that prove?"

  Zoé crashed down in the armchair and burst into tears. "How should I know?" she shouted. "Do you not understand? I want to help the Corbins."

  "Listen. Some crazy woman..." He raised his hands. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that. Leanne was uptight. Uptight about something she thought was going on at the clinic."

  "She trusted them with her life."

  "You can't close down a hospital because they failed to fix someone's headache. It might have been a brain tumor."

  "Me, I will get into the clinic and see Leanne's medical records. You, Matt, you will think how to get us both inside. Is it possible for you to get me in there?"

  Matt guessed that Zoé was overwrought. "Forget it," he said gently. "If someone in that clinic killed Leanne, there's no way I'm going in."

  "So why did we ask Ken to send the bugs?"

  He left her in the kitchen and went into the back yard to think. Getting the bugs had been just a bit of fun. Now it had become deadly serious. Perhaps he could find a way to get in and check the clinic out, but it would be more risky than any job Ken had sent him on.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Clinic of the Little Sisters of Tourvillon

  JIM KAPPA swiveled in his black leather chair to turn away from the window, away from the sight of sunlit fields running through the summer haze towards Avignon. He welcomed a few minutes' break in the middle of a hectic morning, but nothing could beat the stimulation of hands-on surgery.

  A knock at the door signaled the arrival of Bill Clarkson.

  "Sit down, Bill. I want to keep you updated." Kappa had no welcoming smile for the senior executive of the Medical Board. The man had ideas for expansion that had no place in this organization. "I have to be in the operating room in less than an hour, so I'll be brief."

  "Sure, Jim." Clarkson was a tall American in his early forties, always formally dressed, with fine blond hair that came well belo
w his ears.

  Kappa nodded. "Professor Rossano has been on the phone this morning from the Vatican. The Pope's condition is getting more urgent by the hour. So the question is, are we ready?" He moved his chair to face the window again. The yellow umbrellas were already outside the distant pavement café, giving shelter from the heat of the day.

  "We're ready." Clarkson sounded agitated. "You're getting us into this deep, Jim. Everyone here wants to know if you've thought about the future?"

  "The future?"

  "Can we cope with the demand for surgery when news of the Holy Father's healing leaks out?"

  "I don't follow."

  "The Board is already pressing you for a second clinic, Jim, and they want it in the States next time."

  Kappa shook his head, annoyed at the constant questioning of his decisions. "Our patients see this as a consecrated site and it gives them something to cling on to. I'm a great believer, Bill."

  Clarkson looked surprised. "You, Jim? A believer?"

  Kappa forced a smile. "Sure -- a belief in the patient's willpower when it comes to recovery. A determination to live, and faith that recovery will be absolute. It's a good philosophy."

  Clarkson dutifully returned the smile. "Let the Board check out a few sites in the States. The majority of our patients wouldn't need to travel so far."

  "Perhaps the travel is what they like." Kappa found his eyes returning to the view. "No gain without pain; that sort of thing."

  Clarkson walked over to share the scenery. "The surgeon's knife, Jim. That's all they're looking for, not some mysterious healing force on a sacred site near Avignon."

  "Okay," challenged Kappa as he swung his chair back to face the room, "Let me give you an example. Take Steve Michener. He comes here all the way from LA, firmly convinced we can cure him of his intercranial neoplasm -- his brain tumor as he calls it. And what happens? He has immediate surgery and a couple of days later he's on the way to full use of all his faculties. He was sitting up in bed this morning, actually reading a magazine."

  Bill Clarkson lowered his eyes. "It didn't happen with the nurse."

  "You mean Nurse Corbin?" Kappa looked at his watch. "I've asked Mario to conduct an autopsy. It will almost certainly turn out to be a viral infection picked up in town. Perhaps we work our nursing staff too hard on the night shift. Look into the rôtas, Bill."

  "We're trying to keep the death hushed up. Wouldn't do to worry the likes of Mr. Michener."

  "Michener's different, Bill. As soon as he got concerned about his headaches he had the good fortune to go for a medical examination."

  "That man can afford to buy peace of mind with a craniotomy."

  "Michener came here because our man in Los Angeles pointed him in our direction. He's getting better because he had confidence in something. Probably in our skills, but also in our reputation. Like I said, it all comes down to faith."

  Clarkson was not giving up. "And if we opened in LA he'd be a vegetable?"

  Kappa detected the sarcasm in the senior executive's voice and decided to speak sharply. "He'd be a lot less happy. Michener has money and he's pleading to use it. That's how it works when you want healing badly enough."

  "So no more clinics?"

  "My role as senior surgeon is to exercise my skill in the improvement of human life. Your role in the Medical Board is to give these skills enough publicity to attract the rich -- to Avignon. That way our patients get better, and we prosper."

  Bill Clarkson flicked though some papers in his hand. "We're in touch with Nurse Corbin's husband, of course. Monsieur Corbin is managing as well as can be expected."

  Kappa looked startled. "What do you mean, in touch?"

  "Mario is down at the house now. He's gone to tell the husband he's welcome to visit us at any time."

  Kappa breathed in sharply. "I can't possibly agree to that."

  "The husband will have to come up here anyway, to collect his wife's personal belongings."

  "I'll have them sent down."

  "It's like you said, Jim, this is a place of healing. Let Monsieur Corbin meet the Sisters while he's here. They'll help him come to terms with his grief."

  Kappa frowned uneasily. "Is that really necessary?"

  "Healing, Jim."

  Kappa closed his eyes. "Just as long as you know what you're doing, Bill."

  "Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on him."

  "Take care, Bill. Imagine what it would be like running clinics all over the world. The ship would sink and we'd all go down with her. You don't need me to spell it out. This is a family show and we're going to keep it that way. And who's complaining? Is there anyone on the staff who's badly paid?"

  Clarkson shook his head.

  "Like hell there isn't." Kappa pointed a finger at Clarkson. "The Clinic of the Little Sisters of Tourvillon is too good to spoil. It's a holy hill in a religious area -- and we offer healing bordering on the miraculous. There's something in Sister Angela's visions all right."

  "There is?"

  Kappa laughed loudly. "Sure there is, Bill -- a sack full of gold."

  The phone rang and Kappa picked it up. Five minutes later he turned to Bill Clarkson. "That was Archbishop Valdieri, the Pope's personal security chief. He's flying up from Rome this afternoon. The Pope will be here Sunday."

  Clarkson rubbed his hands together. "Somehow I just couldn't believe it would happen. Not with the Vatican investigation."

  Kappa took a deep breath. "The Archbishop will be at Marseilles airport before three, so make sure you're on the helicopter to meet him. He wants a tour of our site as soon as he arrives."

  "A full tour?"

  "I hardly think so."

  Chapter Twenty

  The Vatican

  ARCHBISHOP VALDIERI dropped his tan leather suitcase into the trunk of the limousine and smiled at the driver's protests.

  "Even the clergy must take the part of hired hands," he said quietly. "We are all called to be the servants of Christ."

  Convinced that the driver had said, not sufficiently discreetly to avoid detection, "This must be a first," the Archbishop opened the rear door of the Mercedes but wisely let the chauffeur close it once he was in. The air conditioning brought immediate relief.

  "There is plenty of time to get to Fiumicino." Valdieri spoke with a lightness, determined to enjoy his visit to Avignon.

  "The traffic is bad out to the airport, Your Excellency." Obviously not wishing to risk being late, the driver set a scorching pace as they joined the long straight of the Viale Angelico.

  Before settling down, Valdieri straightened his black cassock with its purple edging, careful not to let it become creased around the back. He had chosen to wear his full archbishop's clothing. It was the best way to get action in Avignon.

  It was never too late to keep looking for problems. A terrorist could have left a bomb in the clinic -- perhaps several weeks ago, while posing as a patient -- and it would be a simple matter for someone to transmit a radio signal to detonate the device at the appropriate time.

  He felt some of the lightness fall away. There was no such thing as a free breakfast, as the English archdeacon often said. And there was no such thing as a free trip to Provence. He was accountable for the life of the Holy Father. It was just as well the French GIGN were taking control of the site.

  "Is it true the Holy Father is unwell?" The chauffeur turned in his seat, oblivious to the weaving traffic in front.

  "There are many absurd stories going around."

  "I know there are stories, Your Excellency, but can you confirm them?"

  Valdieri shook his head. "We mustn't listen to rumors."

  "If they would only say." The driver turned forward and shouted something most unchristian out of the window at a motorcyclist who had clipped his mirror.

  "There's always a right time to make announcements." Valdieri smiled to himself and hoped the chauffeur wouldn't take it as a criticism of his verbal exchange with the rider of the motorcycle who was sti
ll alongside.

  "Like, when the Holy Father is dead?"

  "Keep your eyes on the road." He secretly awarded his driver full marks for apt analysis. That was exactly when the announcement would be made. The Vatican always found it hard to make intelligent announcements on a pope's well-being. Or lack of well-being.

  From the briefcase on his lap Valdieri produced a glossy brochure for the clinic at Tourvillon. The account of the girl's pre-war experiences intrigued him. There had of course been many such recorded appearances over the centuries. Some of them received official recognition, but often the local community failed to grasp the true purpose of the vision. It was all rather sad.

  "Fiumicino in ten minutes, Your Excellency."

  "Take your time." Valdieri was aware that his voice lacked any conviction that his instruction would be obeyed. They were on a wide, new road in flat countryside. He would eat on the plane. The papal executive jet was ready to whisk him to Marseilles, where the clinic had promised a helicopter to fly him directly to Tourvillon. Tourvillon, the home of Dr. Kappa's world-famous clinic.

  Surgery for the Holy Father.

  His stomach felt as though it had shrunk. He had pushed for Tourvillon, and now the future of the Vicar of Christ was in his hands.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Avignon

  THE BAGUETTE stayed on the side, uneaten, for the whole morning. It was lunchtime before Matt picked it up and began to tear half-heartedly at one end.

  "It's not as though we even knew her properly." The crust had become unpleasantly chewy. "You won't like it, Zoé. We could crisp it up in the oven, or I'll get another one."

  "We will stay here. Perhaps Alain will want to come again."

  "Why don't we go and see him? He said Leanne had left something for us in the freezer."

  "Matt, I do not wish to have any food from Leanne."

  "That's a bit unkind."

  "There you go, Matt. You are so like Ken: always you jump to the conclusions. I am thinking it would be too sad to eat the food of Leanne."

  "We don't have to eat it. Alain wouldn't know. But we ought to get it from him."

  "We have let the death of Leanne spoil our holiday."

  "That's the way it goes." Matt shrugged. "There was something about Leanne that I liked. Lion Woman. I wish we'd asked her and Alain round for a meal. You might have been able to persuade her to see a doctor earlier."