The Complete Kate Benedict Cozy British Mysteries

by Carrie Bedford

  “We do repairs here,” he said, waiting until Rocco had secured the entry door behind us. Then he led us to a paneled wooden door in the center of the back wall. Next to it a red light flashed from an electronic keypad. Dante punched in some numbers. With a loud click, the door swung open to a dark, musty-smelling space.

  “After you,” he said.

  24

  Dante flipped on a switch to reveal a small empty space. On the back wall was a lift, an old-fashioned type with iron bars rather than a closed-in cabin. It hardly looked safe for one person, but we all crowded in and descended to a spacious vestibule with painted walls and halogen lights. Set into one wall was a wide steel door that looked as though it concealed a safe, but when Dante pressed some buttons, the door swung open to reveal a corridor. It was about three meters wide, with a concrete floor and raw brick walls. Iron pipes and lengths of electrical conduit ran overhead. Lights flicked on automatically as we walked along.

  After a hundred meters or so, we came to a second steel door where another keypad provided access to a freight lift, not much more than a platform with a low railing around it. When all four of us were on board, Dante pressed a button and the lift jolted into life. A red lamp flashed, eerie in the dim light. Seconds later, a siren wailed loudly.

  “Just a safety measure in case anyone is on the warehouse floor,” he commented. “Not that there would be, of course. Only two people have access to this warehouse. It would be impossible to break into these premises, as you can see. No one can get out without knowing the pass codes either.”

  We descended slowly into an ever-deepening darkness. Finally, the lift came to a stop and a blue light sputtered into life as the metal platform touched the ground. Dante opened the gate and stepped out, reaching out to flip on a series of switches. At once, a bank of overhead bulbs snapped on, casting pools of white light circumscribed by murky shadows.

  As my eyes adjusted, I saw a cavernous space under a vaulted brick ceiling. Rows of metal shelving were stacked against the walls on either side of the room. The units were at least ten feet tall and filled with wooden crates in a variety of sizes and shapes. They were constructed of industrial-looking chipboard and each one was stenciled with a number in black paint.

  “What is in them all?” asked Claire. Her voice was a whisper. The warehouse was cold and smelled of old plaster. It reminded me of a Gothic cathedral.

  Dante spread his hands. “Paintings, sculptures, precious stones. There’s a little of everything here.”

  “Hardly a little,” I said, stupefied by the sheer volume of crates.

  Dante walked ahead and stopped in front of a tall wooden box that stood on the floor and towered several feet over his head. “Inside is a marble statue of Athena, a copy, much smaller of course, of the original gold and ivory sculpture that stood in the Parthenon. This copy was probably made in the third century CE.”

  Claire touched the box gently. “She must be beautiful.”

  “What would you do with a piece like this?” I asked. “Sell it?”

  “Yes, of course. I have a buyer in South Carolina in the States. He has a house full of sculptures, but this will become his most precious acquisition. He’s having a safe room built for it before he takes delivery of it. He’s very excited, as you can imagine.”

  “But shouldn’t something like that be on public display?” I asked. “In a museum? I mean, why should these pieces be in private collections? What’s the point?”

  Dante looked at me, his eyebrows raised. “The point?” he asked, looking confused.

  “What’s the point of having artworks that you never look at, jewelry that you never wear, books that you never read? They should be on display somewhere if they are such an important part of our heritage.”

  Dante smiled. “I see that you don’t understand the world of antiquities and art. For many, many people, just owning a piece of art is enough. They may store it in a bank, or in a vault, but they know that it is theirs and that gives them all the satisfaction they need. Admittedly, many are lucky enough to own the type of property that allows them to display their treasures more boldly and they have the pleasure of looking at their Renoir or Rodin while they eat dinner every evening. Some have a special display room with which to impress their friends. Ownership is the point, Kate. Having something that is unique, that no one else has. In these days of mass-produced art, jewelry, and furniture, we have so little that is truly exceptional and distinctive.”

  He turned to Claire. “Admit to me that you experience a little frisson of pleasure whenever you look at the Madonna on your living room wall. You do, don’t you? Because it’s matchless, its colors enhanced by the patina of age, the appeal of its connection to the past.”

  Claire nodded. “Yes, I love it.” Her cheeks flushed red. “It’s only on loan though. I’ll give it back to you any time you ask me to.”

  He waved a hand as though dismissing the idea and continued to lead us between the towering rows of shelving. I heard a faint hum of machinery and asked what it was.

  “Temperature and humidity control,” said Dante. “We keep the warehouse dark and at an optimum temperature for preservation of the artworks.”

  “When was the warehouse built?” asked Claire. “It’s huge.”

  “It was excavated about three hundred years ago.” He walked in between two of the shelving units, beckoning us to follow. “This is solid rock,” he said, with his hand on the wall. “Here, if you look closely, you can see the chisel marks.” He pointed across the aisle. “And the other wall is formed by the brick and stone foundations of the medieval houses that used to stand above us. It’s a naturally protected space. The only access is the way we entered. It would be impossible for anyone to tunnel or dynamite their way through.”

  “Fascinating,” I said, reaching out to touch the old stone. I loved everything to do with structures and building.

  Dante led us back into the main aisle and continued to walk. “I inherited this business from my father, although with some resistance from my brother, of course. As he’s the oldest, he thought he should run it, but, from an early age, he knew he wanted to go into the Church, while I studied art history at university. My father had no doubts about who should take over when he fell ill.”

  I was starting to wonder why he’d brought us here, but Claire seemed entranced by all the art.

  “What’s this?” she asked, lifting a small black lacquered box down from a shelf nearby. Dante peered at the number on the crate and smiled. “That is a Renoir. A small oil, painted in 1875. One of my favorites. I bought it from the Countess de Lavigny about ten years ago. She had her villa repainted and said the colors in the painting didn’t work with her new décor. Horrible woman, actually. I was very glad to rescue the painting from her. Such a philistine. And it was all her husband’s money, as well as his title.”

  Claire laughed and I did too. But her aura still swirled. I had to focus, to think about what could go wrong that would put her in such danger. I looked around the warehouse. There were only the four of us down here, that much was obvious, and it seemed highly unlikely that anyone else could get in. Dante was being super-protective of her. Unless Rocco went rogue with his nasty-looking gun, I couldn’t pinpoint any obvious threat.

  She and Dante had walked ahead a little way, but now they stopped in front of another shelving unit. Dante hefted a small crate down from a shelf and set it on the ground. “I know you’ll like this, Claire.”

  He took out a gilt casket, its lid painted in colors that had faded to gentle pastels. “This is an icon of Santa Sophia, reputed to have miraculous healing powers. Excellent workmanship both in the painting and the setting of the jewels. Would you care to see it?”

  “Where did you get it?” I asked.

  “I only discovered it a few months ago. Records show that it came to us from a Turkish dealer, who obtained it during the invasion of Cyprus in 1974. However, I am sending it back to the Greeks, who will be very gratefu
l to have one of their most important icons returned to them.”

  He lifted out the icon, which was wrapped in oilcloth and nestled in a bed of packing straw. Unwrapping it, he passed it to Claire who took it as carefully as it if were a newborn baby. I leaned over her shoulder to look. The painting depicted a woman in long red robes, surrounded by three other women, or possibly children, as they were smaller. The border was decorated with gold leaf and jewels of different shapes and sizes. The style of the painting reminded me of the Byzantine mosaics on the ceiling and walls of St. Mark’s in Venice.

  “It’s exquisite,” Claire said. “I’m so happy it will be able to go home. You’re doing a good thing, Dante.”

  Dante put the icon back in its crate, leaving Rocco to stow it on its shelf. I followed as Claire and Dante walked slowly, talking about the artworks. It was easy to see that they shared a passion for art that perhaps even eclipsed their romantic relationship. When I caught up with them, I asked Dante the question I’d been thinking about for a while. “How did you two get together?”

  He beamed, as though remembering something wonderful. “Our first date was the night of the Uffizi reception, wasn’t it, Claire? We’d crossed paths at other art events in the city, and it had taken me a long time to work out how to approach her.” He caught her hand in his. “She was so lovely, I was terrified of asking.”

  Claire gave him a playful nudge. “Silly. You ended up telling Valeria to tell me you wanted to ask me out on a date. Did you really think I would say no?”

  Although I’d have been overjoyed to escape from this little love fest, I still wanted to get to the bottom of the coincidence of their relationship. “It’s amazing that you got together before either of you realized you had something in common— the Custodians,” I said to Dante. “Your family were Custodians and Claire’s family possessed the book that held the key.”

  Claire was glaring at me, but Dante seemed oblivious. “It does seem quite unlikely when you think about it,” he said. “But really, not so much when you consider that we move in the same circles. And Claire, as you must agree, stands out in a crowd, so it’s hardly surprising she’d catch my attention. I suppose it was destiny.”

  Good grief. I wish I hadn’t asked. I trailed along behind the lovebirds for a while, until I noticed a stack of wooden boxes stamped with black numbers and the image of a black eagle. “What are these?” I asked.

  Dante turned to look at me and then at the crates I was pointing to. “Pieces of art taken from Italian Jewish families during the war. They were destined for collection by the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg but were, let us say, mislaid en route. We were able to retrieve them and keep them in Italy.”

  “Einsatzstab?”

  “A Nazi organization under the command of Alfred Rosenberg, charged with the systematic plunder of artwork and cultural objects belonging to the Jews,” said Claire. “Basically, they stole hundreds of millions of pounds worth of art, furniture, jewelry and books for the Fuhrer’s collection.”

  “Then why are they still here?”

  “They’re not. Most of these crates are empty, the objects they contained returned to their rightful owners, but some of these artworks are being disputed in court. It’s a long and arduous process to prove original ownership and many pieces are being claimed by multiple parties. The legal wrangling can drag on for years.”

  I must have looked skeptical because he frowned, generating a straight line centered between his brows. “I assure you, Kate, that if my only motive were profit, I would have sold them long ago.”

  “Are some of these pieces the ones being smuggled out of Italy in 1945?” I asked.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

  “Have you never heard the story of Luca Gardi saving Claire’s grandfather during the war? It had something to do with a Sergeant Vanucci.”

  Dante looked from me to Claire and back. “Tell me more. I’ve not heard of this man, Gardi.” Claire slid her arm through his, and they walked ahead while she related Gardi’s story to him. Trailing behind, I found myself thinking about Falcone. His collaboration with Santini shouldn’t have surprised me, but his betrayal made my head ache. He must have alerted Santini to the fact that we had the key, and told him which train we’d be on. There was no other way Santini could have known when we’d arrive in Florence. I thought Federico must have been in on it. He could have faked being hurt, lying there on the pavement outside the station. He certainly hadn’t done anything to protect us. It was depressing to realize that I could trust no one. As Claire had said about Dante earlier, I should have more faith. But in whom?

  I hugged my arms around my chest to protect myself from the chill of the warehouse and from the thought of all those looted artworks. I was growing tired of wandering around looking at wooden crates. Quickening my pace, I caught up with Dante and Claire, with Rocco a few paces behind me. “Can we see whatever it is you wanted to show us?” I asked. “I’m freezing.”

  Dante smiled. “Of course,” he said. “My apologies. I always get so caught up in the artworks down here. I can show Claire the rest of my inventory some other time. Come with me.”

  We followed him until he stopped in front of a shelving unit that looked just like all the others. He lifted down an unmarked wooden box from which he lifted a thick, creamy envelope. Inside was an old document, yellow with age and frayed at the edges. Carefully, he unfolded it and spread it on the lid of the crate.

  “What do you think?” he asked. “Does this mean anything to either of you?”

  “It’s like the diagram we found in the envelope with the provenance list,” I said. “Is it an exact copy?”

  An expression of relief flitted across Dante’s face.

  “Good. That’s what I was hoping. I believe this is actually the original. The paper type would date it back to the 1500s. I’d guess the copy you had was newer?”

  Claire nodded. “Our diagram is on paper fabricated in the early 1700s I think. It certainly wasn’t as old as the provenance list.”

  We all stared at the paper for a while. “So you’ve had the diagram all along?” I asked him.

  “Yes, but I didn’t know what it was until you described it earlier,” Dante said, putting it back in the envelope, which he slid into his suit pocket. “It’s been stored in the warehouse ever since I can remember. I’m not sure how it got here, or when, or why a copy was made.”

  “We haven’t been able to work out what purpose the diagram serves,” Claire said, her forehead creased. “It doesn’t reveal anything. It’s just a lot of lines. Besides, there are coded instructions, so why do you need both?”

  “Coded instructions?” Dante repeated. “What kind of code?”

  Claire looked at me. “Kate knows more about it than I do.”

  “Well, let’s go back up. Kate’s right that it’s cold down here and you’re shivering. Then Kate can tell me about the code, and I’ll share what I know about the diagram.” He patted the pocket that held the document. “I know my brother will be eager to get hold of this. Now we can negotiate with him for Ethan’s safe release.”

  25

  Back in Dante’s apartment, I took a seat close to the fire, which still burned cheerfully, dispelling the cold I’d carried back with me from the warehouse. Luxuriating in the warmth and the soft, cushioned sofa, I thought about Dante and that incredible warehouse full of art. I’d have burned those Nazi crates if they were mine. Still, it was really none of my business.

  “You weren’t very nice to Dante down there,” Claire said. “Quizzing him about private ownership, and the Nazi looting.” She was staring at a Turner painting on the wall.

  “I was probably overreacting to the sight of those crates addressed to Hitler.” I shivered.

  She gave me a funny look. “Yes, I think you were overreacting. Dante’s not doing anything wrong. He inherited those crates. He didn’t steal them. And he’s doing everything he can to return the contents to their legitimate o
wners. I don’t see what your problem is.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m a little on edge.”

  “I think you’re jealous,” she said. “First, that silliness about Robby and how I stole him from you. Now, you’re disparaging Dante for absolutely no reason. Get a grip, Kate. We all need to work together if we have any hope of getting Ethan back.”

  Put thoroughly in my place, I hunched back into my chair. I was ready for this to be over. I wanted to go home. But I knew I wouldn’t until we found Ethan, and until Claire’s aura disappeared.

  When Dante returned, he spread the old schematic on the coffee table and sat down, patting the space next to him. “Claire, come and sit with me. I’ll have lunch brought up, but first I need to understand more about this diagram and the code.”

  “Did you contact Santini?” I asked. “To tell him we have something he wants?”

  Dante nodded. “I had to leave a message on his mobile, but I told him we have something to offer him in return for Ethan.” He put an arm around Claire’s shoulder when he said Ethan’s name, and she leaned into him.

  Happy to be doing something productive again, I sat down opposite them and peered at the diagram. The room darkened as a sudden cloudburst threw rain at the windows. Rocco walked around the room turning on the lamps. It was only early afternoon and it felt like evening.

  Dante ran his finger along the lines of the rectangles on the map. “We’re certain that Santini doesn’t have the copy of this?” he asked.

  “Not unless he looked in the umbrella urn,” I said, glad now that I’d disposed of it before we were taken into the kitchen. “He told us he didn’t need it, that he knew how to open the vault.”

  “But he couldn’t know,” said Dante. “That’s so typical of my brother. He was born with an overwhelming sense of superiority. He’s a very intelligent man, but his ego often gets in the way of his common sense. As I told you, he’s been desperate to get into the vault for years. I think his excitement clouded his judgment.”