Shroud of the Healer

by Christopher Wright

  "I do not think so. Nurses and doctors do not seek medical help. We will go and see Alain if you like, but we will not stay if his family is there."

  "They won't be. You heard what Alain said. He only talks to his brother."

  "He was depressed."

  "Hardly surprising, with his wife dead. You were good, Zoé. You know the sort of things to say. I'll leave it to you. I get too embarrassed to say much."

  Zoé gave him a long hug and he could feel her hot body against his chest. With her arms still round him, she said, "We will drive. The pâtisserie, it will be closed for lunch, but we can buy another baguette on the way back."

  When they arrived at the small house, Alain opened the door slowly and stood well back inside the cool hallway. He appeared to be in a daze.

  "My brother has just gone," he said. "I am sorry you missed him. He has fixed the funeral for next Thursday. I am glad that he will take the mass."

  "We'll still be in Avignon," said Matt. "So we can come."

  Alain stared at the wall. "A surgeon from the clinic was waiting for me here when I got back. He said it was a natural death, not a tumor. A viral infection of the brain that caused a rupture of the blood cells. Perhaps it is similar to meningitis."

  A pair of candles, short and sitting in a pool of wax, burned unsteadily on each side of the closed coffin in the darkened front room. The small stone-built house had all the outside shutters closed, and Matt quickly became aware of the great sadness inside. One candle was burning down faster than the other as though symbolizing death, with Leanne's death coming first.

  "The surgeon said I can go up to the clinic to get Leanne's things." Alain spoke quietly as though afraid to trust his voice to remain steady.

  "Tell them to send everything down," said Matt. "Or we could get them for you."

  Alain Corbin shook his head. "No, I want to talk to Reverend Mother and Sister Angela. Perhaps Leanne gave them a message for me before she died."

  "Do it," advised Zoé. "I am glad you can talk about Leanne. It is good."

  Alain nodded, but his eyes were watching the flickering yellow flames of the candles. "My brother said the same thing. The surgeon who called was Italian. He spoke a little French, but not very well, so we spoke in English. But his English was sometimes difficult to understand. His name is Dr. Bernetti. Leanne mentioned him a few times. He said there is to be no formal inquest."

  "Did Dr. Bernetti tell you anything else?" asked Zoé.

  Alain looked surprised. "He said Dr. Kappa was called by the duty doctor when Leanne reported sick. Dr. Kappa rushed her to intensive care, but he was unable to save her."

  "So why did Bernetti come here?" asked Matt.

  "He wanted to know if Leanne had brought home any property belonging to the clinic."

  "A strange question," said Matt, remembering the envelope Leanne said she'd found in the corridor. More likely she'd found it in someone's room and been tempted to look, but this was not the time to upset Alain.

  "He was just doing his job." Alain Corbin collected two more candles from the sideboard. "I do not want them to burn out."

  "Would you like a lift to Tourvillon?" asked Matt. "You may not want to drive."

  "I am not going until tomorrow morning, but I do not have a car at the moment. Yes, that is very kind of you. I did not know what to say to Dr. Bernetti. You see, there were some papers in Leanne's bag. Some of them were in Russian. And there were six CDs."

  Matt and Zoé waited.

  Alain seemed lost in a private world of grief. "I have destroyed the papers. I did not want Leanne to be in trouble for bringing anything home. Perhaps they were confidential records. I told Dr. Bernetti there was nothing here. What else could I say?"

  Matt caught Alain's eye as he looked up from the coffin. This stocky man with the large moustache had been a husband yesterday. Today he was a widower.

  "I will give you the CDs. I do not know why Leanne brought them home. She would not steal. And her present for you is in the freezer."

  "It was very kind of Leanne," said Zoé.

  Alain nodded. He led them to an old chest freezer in the outhouse, where he raised the rusting lid and stretched deep into the frosty interior to emerge holding a plastic lunch box with a snap-on lid. Zoé took it but kept the lid closed.

  Matt felt it would be impolite to take it away unopened so he reached over and pulled back the lid. "It's meat," he said, "in plastic bags."

  Zoé clasped her hands over her head and moaned aloud, making both men look at her in alarm. "Put the lid back on," she said urgently.

  "What is it?" asked Matt.

  "There is a problem?" Alain looked on anxiously.

  "There has been a mix-up," said Zoé as she tried to hide the box behind her back. "Leanne must have brought the wrong container back from the hospital. Excuse us a moment, Alain," Zoe said. "I want to talk to Matt outside."

  Matt followed her into the small back yard.

  These are..." She spoke in English. "These are pathological specimens."

  "I don't understand." Matt tried to retrieve the box to get a closer look.

  Zoé held it firmly. "Pathological specimens. From the patients. For analysis at the lab."

  "From the patients?" Matt felt sick. He went round behind Zoé and looked intently at the container. Through the cloudy plastic he could make out deep pink samples in little bags. "You mean those are bits of people? What the hell were they doing in Alain's freezer?"

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Clinic of the Little Sisters of Tourvillon

  THE SUN blasted through the window of his room. Mario Bernetti adjusted the air-conditioning as he made time for a coffee and the enjoyment of his CD with the boys' choir. A helicopter had flown over earlier. Now, even with the window slightly open there was nothing to hear, apart from the occasional car horn rising in the heat from the village. Somehow Jim and his foolish Knights of the Holy Succession had to be stopped. They had brought the clinic unwelcome attention from the Vatican -- and from Archbishop Stephen Valdieri in particular.

  "Come in."

  A slow turning of the brass handle followed the gentle knock on the door. Bernetti moved to cover some papers on his desk, not attempting to conceal his displeasure at the interruption.

  "Mario, have you a few minutes?" It was Maxwell Wilcox, head of security. The thin American in the blazer spoke in English, the obligatory language at the clinic.

  Bernetti waved him into the large room he used as a combined private office and living room. "It is my siesta. I rest now." He kept his attitude deliberately formal, though his annoyance at the interruption probably allowed his English to be basic at best.

  "Jim Kappa wants me to advise everyone that Archbishop Valdieri is now on site."

  Bernetti nodded. "I hear his helicopter, yes?"

  "Yes, you did. The Archbishop is insisting on freedom to poke about wherever he wishes. And he expects to speak with every member of staff."

  "Jim Kappa, he agree to this?"

  "Sure. Why shouldn't he?"

  "It surprise me, Maxwell." Bernetti stayed with his eyes on his desk, as though the discussion was already over.

  "Jim reckons the Archbishop is only here to cover the Pope's visit. It sure would be comforting to know if that's all he's come for."

  "Maybe you think of the Pope's commission of inquiry? All Masonic groups, they scared now. So why you come to warn me?"

  Maxwell Wilcox stood close to the desk as though trying to see what was laid out under the hastily distributed sheets of plain paper. "We can never be sure of the true objectives behind a scrutiny like this."

  "Let Jim worry about it."

  "You have no worries, Mario?"

  Bernetti looked up in surprise and met Wilcox's eyes for the first time. "I only belong to the Knights because Jim he tell me to join. But Jim can be sure I no tell the Pope about K7. That way I put myself out of work." He laughed uncertainly.

  For a moment Wilcox seemed to b
e sharing a confidence. "Minimal membership? You're not alone in that, Mario. I sometimes wonder what I've got myself mixed up with here"

  "But they pay good money. This clinic, it raises much money for everyone."

  Maxwell shook his head. "Perhaps if Jim paid a bigger percentage to the Vatican he might be left alone."

  Bernetti smiled briefly, trying to make it clear he was in no mood for humor or interruptions. "Okay, you go now, Maxwell. Please, no more talk about K7."

  He could only wonder how such a weak man hoped to run a security service. What the clinic needed was a man with energy, vigoria. Archbishop Valdieri needed to be watched carefully. Was Wilcox smart enough to cope?

  "And me, Maxwell, when do I talk with the Archbishop?"

  "Your name is top of the list, Mario."

  "You come here to warn me?" asked Bernetti, feigning surprise. "I have nothing to worry about."

  "Perhaps not." Wilcox glanced at the picture on the wall above the desk. Something in the voice made Bernetti look at the security chief more closely. A man in his position, with access to all records, could know intimate details about every member of staff.

  "Shame about the nurse dying," said Wilcox. "Not the best thing to happen with the Pope on his way. Fortunately the news hasn't got out to the patients."

  "You go now, Maxwell. I want to drink my coffee and listen to my music."

  Bernetti watched Maxwell Wilcox bow ever so slightly, but it was a pantomime act, a pretence of respect.

  As soon as the security chief left, Bernetti locked the door and cleared the desk of all papers. Had Maxwell Wilcox come to pry, or were his hesitant words a well-meaning attempt to warn of something serious? Archbishop Valdieri was on the prowl. Bernetti felt thankful for his time in Rome at the Gemelli Hospital. It had taught one thing: encounters with senior Vatican staff were never as innocent as they seemed on the surface. He would need to be extra vigilant now.

  The CD player remained silent. The boys' choir would not sing again that afternoon. Bernetti stared at the picture above his desk. Had Maxwell realized its significance?

  *

  MATT RETURNED from the living room of their holiday home and watched Zoé lay the small plastic bags in a neat line on the kitchen table.

  "I can't get Leanne's CDs to work on our player," he told her. "They're not sound recordings. They could be computer files, or images." He put them carefully on the table.

  "Look closely at these," said Zoé.

  Matt stared at the tissue samples from a safe distance. "They're revolting."

  Zoé went to the earthenware sink where she washed her hands then dried them in a handful of paper towels. "For some reason Leanne brought these pathological samples back for us. First, we need to find out why."

  Matt screwed up his face in disgust. "First? What else are you planning to do -- fry them?"

  "You are sick, Matt Rider. These are taken from patients."

  "I know what they are. The question is, what are we doing with them?"

  "Leanne wanted us to have them. And I wonder what is on the discs."

  "I told you Leanne was ... you know, she didn't realize what she was doing. She had this thing in her head. That's probably why she collapsed."

  "Perhaps."

  "And what's that supposed to mean?"

  Zoé pointed to the table. "This bag is labeled a secondary duodenal tumor."

  Matt shivered involuntarily. "It sounds disgusting. Why would a nurse have bags of the stuff at home? Did she forget to mail them?"

  Zoé sighed. "You are no help at all. If you knew anything about hospital procedure you would know that specimens are either sent straight down to the lab, or they are chilled for urgent transport to an outside analyst."

  "But these missed the system."

  "No, they have already been analyzed. They are labeled up by the clinic's own pathology lab, so the diagnosis is definite."

  "So why were they in the Corbins' freezer?"

  "Exactement! And another thing: why did Leanne tell Alain they were for us?"

  "Maybe she thought the clinic was screwing up the results."

  "Why would they do that?"

  "Because they're incompetent?" suggested Matt.

  Zoé shook her head rapidly. "The Clinic of the Little Sisters of Tourvillon? They are the best, Matt. To use your expression, they do not screw anything up."

  "They screwed it up for Leanne. I'm amazed she trusted Dr. Kappa anywhere near her. She should have gone to a local doctor in Avignon."

  Zoé began to poke at one of the bags where the red of the contents was partly obscured by condensation. The specimens were already beginning to defrost. "I will put them back in the freezer until we have made up our minds."

  "Could we get them analyzed for whatever the label says is supposed to be wrong?"

  "It is possible." Zoé scooped the bags into the plastic container. "But what would it prove?"

  He held the door of the small freezer. "Let's say the label is correct. If it is, then it proves they know what they're doing up there on the hill."

  "I think that is one thing we can be sure of."

  "But let's say the label's wrong. Let's say it's ... well, you know some of the likely diseases. Let's say it's scarlet fever in that bag."

  "You do not cut samples out for scarlet fever."

  "I knew you'd start to show off, Florence Nightingale. I don't care what the disease is, but let's say they got the diagnosis totally and absolutely wrong."

  "Then they would be incompétent."

  "Right. And Leanne Corbin caught them out."

  Zoé shut the door of the freezer firmly and went to wash her hands again. "You stick to your PI work, and me, I will stick to the nursing."

  Matt wasn't going to give up. "Leanne took a great risk to bring those samples home. We ought to send those bags off somewhere for analysis."

  "Where would we send them?"

  "Your own hospital?"

  "They would never do it for me."

  "Don't you have a friend in the labs?"

  "She does not do this sort of work for the public. What could I say to her?"

  "Ken would know where to go."

  "Ken? Oh yes, Ken he knows everything." Zoé didn't sound as though she meant it. "He is always telling you how wonderful he is, and how many important people he knows."

  "Let's put him to the test." Matt decided he could ignore the gibe. "Ken might have a contact in the medical profession."

  "Leanne, she was not mad you know."

  "I'm beginning to think you're right. I just wish we'd taken the trouble to hear her out on Sunday."

  Zoé opened the small freezer again. "We could drive down to Marseilles this afternoon, and put the samples on a plane to England."

  "Marseilles is quite a way, Zoé."

  "Poor Lion Woman. I thought you wanted to do something for her."

  Matt looked at his watch. Zoé was taking the initiative on this one. "An hour or so to get there in the car? Okay, let's get exhibit one on the road."

  "Pièces à conviction une, deux, trois, quatre, cinq et six."

  "And the CDs," said Matt. "The labels are handwritten. I think it's Russian. Ken can let Mack the Hack see what's on them."

  "We had better phone Ken first, to make sure he goes straight to the airport. We need to pack them with plenty of ice or they will quickly start to smell. Do you want anything to eat before we go?"

  Six small plastic bags in a food container. Matt shook his head. "Not just now. It's not worth thinking about the possibilities of a mix-up."

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Clinic of the Little Sisters of Tourvillon

  STEPHEN VALDIERI felt pleasantly surprised by the openness of the nursing staff. The sight of his black cassock enabled him to talk openly with the medical assistants and nurses. He'd found the same openness last month on the initial visit. But with the senior staff it was different. Well aware of the Pope's opposition to Masonic and similar Lodges, t
hey presented a brick wall to his every query.

  Even so, the surgeons were expressing what appeared to be a genuine concern for the well-being of the Holy Father. It was a comforting impression. But long experience told him that beneath the surface there was chill water flowing in the darkness.

  He stared from Bernetti's open window, with its outlook towards Avignon over yellow fields and tiny footpaths, and could almost be looking straight down on the rooftops of the village at the foot of the hill. "I believe you had friends in the Vatican when you were in Rome, Dr. Bernetti?" He spoke in Italian to make the man feel at ease. Maybe he could get the neurosurgeon to drop his guard.

  Bernetti stayed at his desk. "When I was at the Gemelli Hospital in Rome I met many of your people. Please, call me Mario, Your Excellency. I heard you were American, but you speak perfect Italian."

  Valdieri smiled. "It comes from a cosmopolitan upbringing, but I still think of America as my home. Tell me, Mario, would you call yourself a devout Catholic?"

  He asked the question lightly, but it brought an immediate reaction. "I do not attend mass on a regular basis, but I have a baptismal certificate."

  "Ah, that splendid piece of paper." Valdieri stayed at the window. He felt drawn into making a defense of his beliefs. "There will, I am sure, be many baptismal certificates presented at the gates of Heaven. Maybe Saint Peter will need a fleet of waste disposal trucks to keep the entrance clear."

  Mario Bernetti tipped his head on one side. "Are you making a theological point, Your Excellency?"

  Valdieri allowed himself a wry smile. "We will have to wait to see if a piece of paper is as effective as a personal faith."

  Bernetti stayed at his desk, apparently studying a book on surgical techniques. "I will do everything necessary for the Holy Father."

  "Professor Rossano at the Vatican will appreciate your skill when he arrives with the Holy Father."

  Bernetti frowned. "Professor Rossano? I did not realize he would be coming. I think Jim Kappa will not be pleased." He looked up. "It is difficult to say this, Your Excellency, but please be careful of Jim Kappa."

  Valdieri stood to go. Dissenso. Plainly there was friction between Bernetti and Kappa. "The Holy Father's condition is deteriorating rapidly, Mario."

  "Does he arrive tomorrow?"

  "Sunday. Professor Rossano and Dr. Bisenti will accompany the Holy Father, but you can be sure that crucial medical decisions will only be made by this clinic."

  Bernetti began to fiddle nervously with a drawer on his desk. "I would like to carry out in-depth tests as soon as the Holy Father arrives."