The Haunted Martyr

by Kenneth Cameron

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve the guest in the house.’

  ‘Oh, well… There are all sorts of things other people do.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Frank Harris told me about somebody who had himself tied up and was then told dirty stories by his mistress. It’s all they ever did together.’

  ‘A little hard on her. Well, that’s the usual way, isn’t it? You hear about most such stuff in a whorehouse. A lot of Englishmen have desires about the nursery—well-to-do ones, I mean—being spanked and having the girl dress up as Nurse, and so on. It suggests a real lack of a sense of humour.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘Unlike you. You have a healthy sexual appetite and enjoy it all even when you know it looks ridiculous. Plus you know how to give pleasure as well as take it.’ She kissed him again. ‘Thank God.’ She leaned back. ‘I shall give you a promissory note. Tell me about your day.’

  ‘Today’s medium was rubbish. Told me all sorts of things about myself he could have dug out of any newspaper. They must think I’m a complete idiot. Maybe I am.’ He threw himself into a chair. ‘I met Maltby on the way back. He’s still brooding on Fra Geraldo’s chapel.’

  ‘Like you.’

  ‘Well, it’s a weird place.’

  She said, ‘Children as torturers, yes.’

  ‘I think it has to be sexual.’

  ‘That’s new! Did you tell Maltby?’

  ‘What else would it be? All that stuff about suffering martyrs, saints having their teeth pulled and their breasts cut off, it’s all sexual, isn’t it?’

  ‘So Fra Geraldo was sexually fixed on children, was he? And they become torturers and he whips himself? And he talks to you about atoning? Not too difficult to see what he was about if you buy that, I suppose. A bit Yellow Book for your Mr Maltby, however. You make him seem a straightforward meat-and-potatoes man—lie down and spread your legs, dear.’

  ‘You think he molested boys or he only thought about it?’

  ‘Maltby? Oh, Fra Geraldo. Whipping himself could suggest either one. Or was he simply ashamed of dirty thoughts from long ago? That would be very English.’

  ‘But it was children’s ghosts he told me about. He’d killed children?’

  ‘Rather a reach.’

  ‘Well, you don’t get ghosts without deaths.’

  ‘But an adult is a dead child—no? Or a child who’s gone away years ago is dead to you, isn’t it? “Ghost” may be poetic licence. Or if you destroy a child’s innocence, I suppose you could say that you’ve killed the child. And it becomes a ghost?’

  He grunted. She lit a cigarette. She said, ‘To spend forty years painting yourself as the victim of torture isn’t entirely sane. And he did paint himself as the victim, isn’t that it? Not pictures of himself buggering little boys behind the church organ.’

  ‘The victim of a temptation that was also a torture? So it was all in his head?’

  ‘Or in his paintbrush. It’s like you when you’re writing—you haven’t done the awful things you write about, but they come out anyway; they’re in there in some form, but they don’t have to have really happened to cause you to spend a year or two writing a book. Maybe the poor man simply lusted for some child and has been punishing himself for it with his brush ever since.’

  ‘Or he murdered two of them and buried them in the walls of the Palazzo Minerva. He was a damned good plasterer. And carpenter. And he liked to hide things. Even his paintings are sort of now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t—proportions a little off, the far distance not quite right because it’s so sharp. The angel on the ceiling may be sympathetic or it may be completely blasé.’ He sighed. ‘You’ve seen my photographs.’ He inhaled heavily. ‘Fra Geraldo’s successor’s sending out a private detective, Maltby says.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Apparently to make sure the death was an accident. Sounds as if he’s a little unsteady on his pins—maybe thinks his title’s shaky. “Uneasy lies the head.” God knows what the dick will tell him when he’s seen that chapel. “Your predecessor was crazy as a loon.”’

  ‘And you, my dear, take the private detective as a personal insult. Am I right?’

  They were silent. She smoked; he got up and took one of her cigarettes and lit it, standing at the window of the red room and looking down into the sere gardens. He said, ‘Maybe an English private detective will find something I didn’t. Maybe it needs fresh eyes.’

  ‘You’ll show him the chapel?’

  He made a face. He got up and prowled the room. He said, ‘I’m sick of the dead and spooks and mediums. They’re all rubbish, no matter what DiNapoli says. Fra Geraldo was real. So is that chapel. Yes, I’ll show it to the detective, or Maltby will. I can’t pretend it’s mine simply because I found it. Although I guess that’s the way I feel.’ When she didn’t respond, he kissed her; she turned her cheek; he went out. His mind growled and grumbled like a sick stomach. Everything was in turmoil.

  L’amore non c’è. Il poliziotto fa la commedia. Temptation as torture…

  CHAPTER

  15

  When Maltby brought the English detective to the Casa Gialla, Rosa, the less frightened of the housemaids, appeared at Denton’s workroom door with Maltby’s calling card. He was downstairs; should he be allowed to come up? Denton was shuffling through papers, trying to find a note he’d written to himself, his workday nominally over.

  ‘Ma certo, certo!’ He thought the girl was an idiot, although mostly she was ignorant and frightened. She fled.

  Several minutes later, Maltby and a cheerful-looking man in a rather loud plaid lounge suit came into the small sitting room. Maltby made the introductions, hardly needing to say that the stranger was the private detective. He looked as English as his suit and smiled while Maltby introduced him, then gave Denton a crushing handshake.

  ‘Mr Denton, a real pleasure, sir.’

  His name was Joseph Cherry. He seemed large, not tall but wide. He filled his gaudy suit quite amply, showing a good gut below the waistcoat and a big, round, red face above it, marked with a straight hairbrush moustache. His hands were like bunches of carrots, very hairy on the back; he had a roll of fat under his chin and another at the back of his neck. His eyes, however, were amused and sharp. He had one of those accents that bewildered Denton, this one presumably Birmingham because the next thing he said was that he was Brummie and far from home.

  They sat and Denton had tea and sherry brought in. They made some meaningless talk about weather and London in winter and Cherry’s struggles at the railway station when he arrived in Naples, which he turned into a comic tale of escape from brigands. When the tea was poured, the detective took a cup and blew on it and sipped. ‘I used to be Sergeant Cherry,’ he said. ‘Birmingham coppers. Thought there was a good thing in the private detective line, tried it, found I was right.’ He laughed, slapped a hand to his belly. ‘It suits me.’

  Maltby said gloomily, ‘Mr Cherry’s here to look at the stairs in the Palazzo Minerva.’

  Cherry laughed again. ‘Good deal more than the stairs, Mr Maltby!’ He turned his amused, bright eyes on Denton to say something but then swung them over to the doorway. ‘There’s a dog if ever I saw one,’ he said.

  Sophie, Janet’s now half-grown mutt from the Solfatara, wagged her way into the room. Denton called her name, meaning to put her out, but she sniffed Maltby’s cuffs and at once went to Cherry and sniffed him up to the knee and then sat between his feet and let her head be scratched. ‘She smells my dog,’ Cherry said.

  ‘I can put her out.’

  ‘Not a bit of it. I like dogs.’ And dogs seemed to like Cherry. Shortly, Sophie had her head on his knee and was making small half-whimpers that ended in a kind of growl. Cherry smiled. ‘Some dogs purr like a cat, they do.’ He put his face down towards the dog. ‘Don’t you—eh? Don’t you, doggy? And what’s your name? Well, you’re a fine-looking doggy, yes, oh, yes, what a doggy, what a fine doggy…’ He glanced up and, embarrassed, straightened. ‘I’m a bit saft on dogs.’

 
Maltby looked severe. ‘As I was saying, Mr Cherry’s come to look at the stairs in the Palazzo Minerva.’

  ‘And as I was saying, more than stairs, Mr Maltby.’ Cherry nodded to Denton. ‘I suggested we start with the stairs because of Mr Denton’s comment as reported by you. Now, Mr Denton, I haven’t come all this way to disagree with you—matter of fact, I think your observations were rightly made. I agree that there should ought to of been blood on those stairs. ’Course, strange things happen, as I’m sure you’ll agree, but under the circumstances of an old man going arse over teacup as it were down a flight of stairs, I agree that there should ought to of been blood. We’ll see.’

  ‘Been kind of a long time,’ Denton said.

  Cherry put a finger beside his rather large nose and winked. ‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat, sir. What the human eye couldn’t see before Christmas, modern science may reveal before Easter.’ He chuckled and helped himself to a biscotto. ‘Maltby here tells me there’s ferocious little light on those stairs. I’ll see to fixing that.’

  ‘There’s gas. You could use limelight, I suppose.’

  ‘A battery light, Mr Denton—the newest thing. I’ll go to limelight if I have to, but I think the battery light will do. Blind you at ten paces, it will.’ He selected another biscotto, sampled it, eyed it, and said, ‘I was a little surprised that the Naples police chaps didn’t avail themselves of same. However, things are done differently here, I’m sure.’ He sniffed and looked into the middle distance, an expression of complete innocence on his face.

  Maltby squirmed. ‘I told him that the Naples people were in my view pretty cursory and that the Carabinieri chap thought there was a lack of evidence.’

  Cherry held up a large finger. ‘Which is not to say there’s no reason for us not to look things over again, Mr Maltby.’ He tilted his head towards Denton. ‘His Lordship wants everything above board. Now, you’ll say he’s young—seventeen is young to become a peer out of the blue, as it were—but he’s no babbie, and I credit him for a lot of horse sense, if I can put it that way. I think he said to himself, “Here I am, all of a sudden in the House of Lords, I owe it to the man who came before to make sure his death was above board.” And I say more power to him, although it’s true I benefit from him saying it because I’m the one he’s hired to do it—and I get a European holiday into the bargain.’ He laughed.

  ‘What exactly does the young lord think may have happened?’

  ‘To be perfectly honest, he’s afraid there might have been criminal involvement. We read things in the English newspapers, Mr Denton, would make your hair stand on its end. The criminal element in Italy is said to be fee-rocious.’

  ‘The Camorra?’

  Cherry shot a finger towards him, as if to say he’d got it in one.

  ‘What would an old man who thought he was a monk have to do with the Camorra?’

  ‘I don’t think the young lord’s thought that through, Mr Denton. But he knows his own mind! If there’s been skulduggery or low dealing, he wants to know!’

  ‘But there’s no evidence of skulduggery or low dealing.’

  ‘I believe, in fact, Mr Denton, that you’re the one whose doubts put this bee in His Lordship’s bonnet.’

  ‘But nothing’s come of it. No offence, Mr Cherry, but do you really expect to find something that everybody else has missed?’

  Cherry laughed. He was sharing another biscotto with the dog, who was now half in his lap. ‘Between you and me and the gatepost, no. I don’t pretend to be one iota better than the average copper, even an Eye-talian one. What I hope to do is be able to set His new Lordship’s mind at ease that everything’s above board and the old man died of a very unfortunate accident.’

  ‘So you intend to go over the whole house.’

  ‘I do. Young Maltby tells me there’s a remarkable room that you discovered, sir; I shall certainly want to see that. And the old man’s lodging, and so on. I suppose you’ll think I’m the nosy chap from Brum, but I assure you I mean to do this quick and neat and climb on my horse and ride home. And I apologise in advance for seeming to question what anybody did in this sad business. It’s just a matter of making assurance doubly sure, as the Bard puts it.’

  ‘You don’t need to apologise for anything, Mr Cherry. What can I do?’

  ‘You can come with me to the old fellow’s house and show me about. Shan’t ask more than that of you, I promise. And I’ll be as quick as I can once we’re there, so long as it squares with me doing a good job.’ He grinned. ‘Or as good as I’m able.’

  ‘Whenever you like.’

  ‘Maltby says you work mornings. I think an afternoon should do it. Tomorrow’s too soon, I expect.’

  Denton, actually rather eager to see the detective at work, said that tomorrow afternoon, late, would do. Cherry gave the dog a final scratching of affection, calling it Sweetie and Sweet Doggie, then stood and brushed dog hairs off his trousers; and they moved towards the door. Seeing them out, Denton learned that Cherry was staying at the Bristol, that he was afraid of getting a fatal disease while in Naples, and that he thought he would like to go to Pompeii in the morning ‘so as to have something to tell my grown daughter when I’m home again’. Maltby looked pained but dutifully went away with the detective, who seemed to be his personal responsibility while he was in Naples.

  He told Janet about it while she opened the afternoon mail. He had got to a description of Sophie’s behaviour, and, more to the point, Cherry’s—‘He’s one of those men who can make absolute fools of themselves over an animal and not be embarrassed; he’d never make such noises to a woman in public—or even in private, I’ll bet—’ and he heard a sound from her like a muted sob.

  He looked up at her. She had tears in her eyes. She was holding a letter, and the tears were starting shiny snail-tracks down her cheeks.

  ‘Janet.’

  She looked at him. ‘Ruth Castle has cancer of the breast. She’s known for two years and done nothing because she was afraid they’d cut her breasts off. She’s dying.’ She began to weep. ‘She’s so vain! She’s so damned vain!’

  Then suddenly she was out of her chair and throwing letters out of her way. ‘I must go to London!’

  ‘Janet—!’

  She was at the door to the inner room. She paused, looked back at him, her expression angry, cheeks wet. ‘I’ve been very good for weeks, Denton. It’s your turn.’

  He felt as if he’d been kicked. By ‘very good’, he knew, she meant that the time in Naples had been a pretence. A holiday. Now, she meant, she was going back to reality. Without him. And that was what he was supposed to be ‘very good’ about.

  She was on her way to London that evening. Her last words to him at the railway station were, ‘Don’t let Lucy’s life be ruined by her mother. With me not here… For me, Denton, if not for her.’

  CHAPTER

  16

  The next day was again warm, promising spring. Denton walked blindly to the Palazzo Minerva, stunned by her sudden leaving. He feared that she had been relieved to go—that she was tired of him. He thought unworthy thoughts: Had she been glad to go? Had she got Ruth Castle to write her the letter so she would have a reason for going? And that meanest of questions: was there somebody else?

  He was surprised to find Inspector Gianaculo standing in a pool of late-winter sunshine, a crooked, slender cigar in his left hand. Gianaculo said something in English, Denton something in Italian; they found that they could communicate with a mixture of languages, Denton’s Italian now the better of the two. When Denton said that he was surprised to find Gianaculo there, the fat man looked away and puffed on his cigar and said that the English consulate had informed the questura of the detective’ visit as a courtesy. As Fra Geraldo’s death had started as his case, he thought he would see what was going on. He shrugged. A minute later, Maltby arrived with Joseph Cherry. Then, to Denton’s surprise, Capitano Donati sauntered in, gorgeous in a pale grey suit with a faintly lavender waistcoat,
a thin cigar cocked in one side of his mouth like a battle flag. Maltby scowled and muttered to Denton, ‘I felt I had to tell the Carabinieri about the detective, too. I’d no idea he’d come.’

  The Palazzo Minerva felt as cold as if it had boxed winter up inside. Cherry shuddered as he stood at the foot of the stairs and said that it was as cold as your stepmother’s breath. He looked upward. ‘That’s a mean staircase to come down head first!’ He was carrying a small, scuffed suitcase, whose latches he now opened. ‘My laboratory,’ he said. He grinned. ‘Customs gave me a little hell about it. Thought I might be an anarchist.’ He chuckled, then looked at Gianaculo. ‘I hope somebody will explain this to the inspector.’

  Donati was happy to serve as translator. Gianaculo, who had watched the case being opened, was peering in at nested bottles and tins, not unlike a picnic set, and, on the inside of the lid, several sizes of brushes, two dental picks, and a scalpel, held in place by leather straps. Donati said to Gianaculo, ‘Roba investigatoria. Non è cretino, questo tipo.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Maltby demanded.

  Denton murmured, ‘He said it’s investigative stuff.’

  Maltby looked suspiciously at Donati. Cherry, on the other hand, was holding up several items and saying in rather loud, carefully enunciated English, ‘Brush! Scal-pel! Plas-ter of Pa-ris!’ He took a wooden box that Maltby had been carrying for him, opened it, and took out the biggest flash-light that Denton had ever seen. Most of it was battery, he thought—a cube as big as a block of ice, above it on a metal hoop the lamp. Thin red wires led to the battery’s terminals; on the lamp’s front was a fresnel lens of the sort that was used on dark lanterns. ‘Light!’ Cherry said.

  ‘La luce, si.’ Gianaculo nodded. He finished his cigar and muttered in Italian to Denton, ‘Am I deaf, he thinks?’

  Cherry seemed to have decided to talk mostly to Donati. ‘Tell the inspector that most of the stuff is just common sense—like here’s a bit of soapy water to clean off surfaces and the like; that there’s turps to wipe down paint or anything varnished. This here’s a solution reacts with sulphur, useful to show up gunpowder of the old sort, black powder; useless on the new so-called smokeless stuff, unfortunately. Magnet for picking bits of metal out of dust.’