The Montague Portrait

by Matt Drabble

  ‘Of course,’ Umberto said. ‘My family has worked in the Teatro Comunale di Firenze for more generations than I could list. There is not an inch of this building that I could not bore you to tears with.’ He smiled, regaining some good humour along with his pride. ‘This portrait was presented to the theatre in 1946,’ he began.

  Travis flashed a look at Charlotte as she opened her mouth to argue; thankfully she took the hint and closed it again. As much as he admired her courage and skills under fire, right now he needed to listen.

  ‘Hugo Montague was one of the theatre’s most ardent supporters and financial backers,’ Umberto continued. ‘His patronage allowed us to thrive during the leaner times of our history. Of course I am sure that you are both aware of the troubles during that period.’

  Travis smiled inwardly. He had never heard the World War II described as ‘the troubles’ before. ‘Hugo Montague was a British citizen,’ he said. ‘How on earth was he aligned with an Italian opera theatre during the war?’

  ‘Hugo Montague was a man of extraordinary dedication and his dedication was to the arts. He was a man who had the ability to look beyond the skirmishes of modern man and instead take the longer view of history. He believed in the ascension of mankind through art and didn’t bother himself with the trifles of those who thought themselves imbued with fake power.’

  ‘He sounds nuts to me,’ Charlotte said. ‘Why on earth would anyone want to give the guy the time of day?’

  ‘People were simpler then,’ Umberto answered. ‘Hugo Montague was a man of immense power and confidence. He had an overwhelming aura that demanded attention and obedience. Don’t forget, young miss, a certain little man had risen to power across the border and brought the world to war on the basis of his charisma.’

  ‘And what was it that Montague believed in?’ Travis asked.

  ‘Hugo Montague believed in the everlasting power of the soul,’ Umberto said, staring at the painting. ‘That life was a never ending cycle for those who were deserving enough, and those who had the courage to unlock its secrets.’

  ‘What was he doing here?’ Travis asked.

  ‘Florence was awash with pain and death at the time. The Alliance had launched an offensive which started on 6 April 1945 and ended on 2 May with the surrender of German forces in Italy. Buildings were flattened and the bodies were stacked up high enough to touch the smoke-filled sky. I was but a boy of twelve. We were oblivious to the facts of war, but not to the dead and the dying.’

  ‘Was Montague here then?’ Travis asked.

  ‘He was well known about the town. He would often bring food and clothing for those in need. He was at first welcomed as a saviour by desperate people,’ Umberto went on. ‘The hungry and the cold flocked to him like a God at first.’

  ‘At first?’ Charlotte said.

  ‘Some strange rumours began to spread at the time. Some younger children disappeared without trace. But it was just around the end of the war and people were disappearing all the time. There was a young woman, Drusia Fiametta. She had a young daughter at the time, who went missing. For whatever reason, she was convinced that Montague was responsible and set about telling the world.’

  ‘What happened to her?’ Travis asked, fearing the answer.

  ‘She was found torn apart and her remains were left hanging from this theatre’s front flagpole. It was assumed that some of the allies or locals had taken revenge for her possible collaborations. But there were many more whispers that she had run afoul of Montague and that her constant accusations had led to her being made an example of.’

  ‘What sort of whispers?’ Charlotte asked in a low voice.

  ‘You have to remember where you are, my dear. This is the old country where superstitions are taken as historical facts. There was talk of black magic and sacrifices; deals with the devil and satanic rituals. All that sort of nonsense,’ Umberto said, trying to sound light hearted, but falling some way short.

  ‘Did you ever meet the man?’ said Travis.

  Umberto’s face darkened and fell. ‘Once,’ he said in a choked voice, ‘when he presented his portrait to the theatre. It was Montague who provided the financial backing to restore the theatre. The restoration took a little under a year and Hugo was front and centre during that time. He lived in the town during the building work, but there were no more disappearances. My father worked on the rebuilding and took me to the grand reopening. Hugo Montague played the part of the generous benefactor. The reopening was a huge event and everyone in town turned out. I remember seeing him resplendent in a suit fit for a King. Montague was led down an assembled line of workers who had toiled on the theatre, including my father. I was standing proudly next to my papa as he basked in his moment of importance. I remember that for the briefest of moments Hugo Montague stood before me. He was so tall I had to crane my neck up to the stars to see him. As he spoke to my father I was suddenly scared. He bent down and placed his hand on my shoulder as his fingers touched my neck.’

  Travis watched the old janitor’s face darken further and felt waves of fear washing off the man.

  ‘His touch was cold, so cold,’ Umberto said. ‘It was only the briefest of moments, but to this day that spot of skin still feels cold to me. It’s as though his fingers are still only millimeters from my throat.’

  ‘What did you think of him? Then and now?’ Travis asked.

  ‘I am eighty years old,’ Umberto said. ‘And I have witnessed many things in my life. I have read and travelled, I have loved and lost. I have often laughed at the silly superstitions of my countrymen. I’ve shaken my head with scorn at those who never pour wine with a left hand or are deathly afraid of the number seventeen. Did you know that to see a nun is bad luck and one must immediately touch iron? For this very purpose, many people carry a nail in their pocket or purse. But I can tell you this, my friends, I felt the touch of Hugo Montague on my shoulder. And I know in my heart that he was touched by the devil himself and he is nothing if not pure evil.’

  ----------

  Chris Taylor wept softly and prayed that he would live to regret his actions. He had made a choice. He chose Janey over Travis. His hands were now untied, but he was little threat to anyone.

  Dr Gabriel Lochay had just pressed the off button after relaying information into his phone. His three goons were standing motionless like stone gargoyles. The good doctor had given Chris a laptop to use and he had quickly accessed the tracking details for Travis’s whereabouts. His old friend was in Florence and Chris was helpless to warn him.

  ‘Well now, Mr Taylor, it would seem that you have been of the most excellent use after all,’ Lochay said as he watched the dot on the screen that zoomed in on Travis’s location. ‘In fact I would love to let you be on your way, but you see unfortunately I really can’t afford loose ends. I hope that you understand,’ the doctor added mournfully.

  Chris’s head buzzed with all the betrayal in the room. ‘I did what you asked,’ he said incredulously. ‘I gave you what you wanted and now you should let me go.’

  Lochay looked at him with mock indignation. ‘And have you running back to Mr Vargas to tell him all my secrets?’

  ‘But I don’t know anything.’

  ‘And now you never will,’ Lochay said sadly as he gave a slight nod to one of his giant size companions.

  The man drew a black, plastic looking Glock from inside his expertly tailored suit jacket. Chris stared in disbelief. He couldn’t fathom why the bargain was being broken. He had sold his soul and apparently for nothing.

  The man jammed the gun against the side of his head. Chris tensed, holding his breath as he waited for his useless end. Suddenly a flash of movement startled everyone in the room, including the gunman and his two brethren.

  Chris turned his head just in time to see Lochay bolt like a rabbit towards a fire exit. A split second later the main door to the warehouse exploded inwards. Several small metallic canisters that looked like stun grenades bounced across the stone floor a
nd twirled around, spinning in soft echoes. It seemed to Chris as if the whole world was being scorched in blinding light and he wondered if this was his rescue or his death.

  The pressure was suddenly gone from the side of his head as the gunman raised his hands to shield his eyes. Chris heard the very clear sound of three quick pops of small arms gunfire. This was followed by three loud slumps to the ground, then several more pops as the newcomers made sure of their targets.

  Slowly recovering from the sonic boom assault of the stun grenades to his eyes and ears, Chris gradually began to see the shadowy figures as they scanned the room for survivors and potential threats. The three silhouettes then quickly assumed positions by the main door and stood down. A moment later a much larger shadow stepped in through the door. To Chris’s dim eyes he appeared to occupy the entire warehouse. His heart leapt than sank then leapt again, not knowing quite which direction to take –

  It was Vargas.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Taylor,’ Vargas boomed with a natural authority that seemed to suck the life from the room. ‘Quite the predicament that we find ourselves in, is it not?’

  Chris had no idea what to feel or what to say to the man. ‘Mr Vargas, I’m so glad that you came,’ he blurted out.

  ‘And what, pray tell, did Mr Lochay have to ask you, I wonder?’ Vargas said as he glided across the floor.

  Chris couldn’t help correcting him.

  ‘Dr Lochay.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘He said that he was Dr Lochay,’ Chris added.

  Vargas laughed; it wasn’t a pleasant sound. ‘Well, isn’t that nice? And what did Dr Lochay want, and more importantly, what did you tell him?’

  Chris’s mind raced. Whatever courage he’d had, was used up by now. He knew that Vargas would see through any lie he tried to offer. In the end all he had was the truth and the hope of mercy. But that wasn’t quite true. He also had an ordered mind that was railing against the sudden invasion of insanity into his ordered world. His was a mind of computers and codes, structure and a linear composition. It was why he had inadvertently corrected Vargas about Lochay’s title. And right now he didn’t have all the facts to hand.

  ‘Who is Lochay?’ Chris asked. ‘And who are Benedict Worthington, Hugo Montague and Charlotte Goode?’

  ‘You see, Mr Taylor, I knew I was right to keep you away from this,’ Vargas said with a small smile on his face. ‘Your connection with Mr Parker was useful, but you do insist on having a loyalty to him that may well have hindered my plans. Don’t get me wrong – I am always appreciative of your talents and you could undoubtedly have been of more assistance in this matter. But I thought that I could never fully trust you to stay on the party line.’

  ‘What is all this?’ Chris asked in a bewildered tone. ‘What am I involved in?’

  Vargas stared hard at him, as though he himself wasn’t quite sure. After a few moments he waved his three balaclava-clad companions away, and without a word between them, the men danced nimbly through the door. Vargas grabbed a chair and with a nerve shredding squeal he dragged it across the floor, placed it in front of Chris and sat down.

  The tall man’s suit was beautifully tailored, and Chris could only guess at the cost. Vargas exuded a heavy natural muskiness that at close range bordered on the overwhelming. His hair was swept with grace and he wore tortoise-shell glasses instead of his usual black.

  ‘You know, Mr Taylor,’ Vargas began. ‘Sometimes it really can be lonely at the top. Surrounded by minions without thoughts or minds to engage one’s intellect can be rather tiresome at times. I mean, if a genius conquers the world in the woods, is there anyone to hear the sound of trumpets?’

  Chris had never heard the great man ruminate before. He had only ever witnessed the scurrying sight of employees running for the dark corners to avoid his gaze. Now the elemental force of nature seemed almost human.

  ‘It’s been such a long time since I heard any other voice that wasn’t my own,’ Vargas continued. ‘And after all I have such stories to tell.’

  ----------

  ‘There’s something different about this painting,’ Charlotte said as she stared intently at the portrait hanging in the opera house. ‘There’s not quite the same energy here.’

  ‘I can assure you that it is the genuine article,’ Umberto said. ‘The great artist Giotto Bramante painted this himself –’

  ‘Wait a minute – not Benedict Worthington?’ Travis said.

  ‘Who?’ Umberto asked with raised eyebrows.

  ‘Worthington. Benedict Worthington. He painted The Montague Portrait in 1923.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Umberto said.

  ‘There must have been more than one painting,’ Travis mused aloud. ‘This is a copy for some reason. That’s why you’re not getting the vibes from it,’ he said, turning to Charlotte. ‘It’s not your Montague.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  TALL TALES?

  ‘There are far more players and factions on the board than we are able to keep up with, Mr Taylor,’ Vargas said with a half concealed yawn. ‘It’s all a game, you see. We push the pieces around and make the puppets sing and dance. And in the end we all go round in circles and back again to the start. There are always two sides to everything, Chris. May I call you Chris?’

  Chris nodded, unsure of what was going on. Vargas was a titan who was suddenly walking among the mortals with his sandals upon the sand. ‘Sure, Chris is fine,’ he said quietly.

  ‘There was once a man called Hugo Montague. Now there was a giant among men. He was a man constrained by the limitations of our fragile bodily form, but he was also a man unwilling to accept such limitations. He sought out answers from across the globe. He studied every culture’s fascination with prolonging life beyond death, and dedicated his fortune to unlocking the deepest and darkest secrets.’

  ‘And did he?’ Chris couldn’t help asking.

  ‘Ah, now therein lies the eternal question. Was Hugo a deranged lunatic? Or was he a God? Do you have family, Chris, other than Jane, of course?’

  Chris was a little startled by the question. ‘I lost both my parents when I was still pretty young. No siblings and so far no children,’ he answered truthfully. The subject of children had been a thorny one between him and Janey. She wanted them and he was a little reticent, fearing that he lacked the basic tools for rearing.

  ‘The burden of a family crest can be a terrible one, Chris. A legacy handed down from generation to generation that shapes our destiny and chooses our path. Hugo Montague was a man who believed solely in the duties of family honour. He married a young girl called Eleanor. By all accounts she was a comely girl of childbearing age and thought to be a worthy breeder to provide Hugo with many heirs. Unfortunately Hugo became increasingly unstable over the loyalty and faithfulness of young Eleanor. Whether or not the young girl tired of her considerably older husband is unknown. But there was a son born in 1920 and Hugo had his heir. Soon after the birth of his son, Hugo took off on his travels to the furthest reaches of the civilised world, and then beyond. When he returned some three years later he was full of a dark excitement and equal rage. He immediately set about his wife accusing her of running around with every man in the town. His suspicions were matched by his legendary temper and brutal hand. In 1923 Hugo employed an artist called Benedict Worthington to paint the portrait of himself and Eleanor. The myth says that through some mystical black arts he managed to imbue his very essence into the portrait that he painted.’

  Chris wanted to laugh out loud, but there was no humour in the air.

  ‘It is said that upon returning home with the finished painting he flew into a fearful drunken rage, as the portrait seemed to offer little in the way of confirmation. By this time he was an old and broken down man. He had suffered from various illnesses and injuries on his travels and he walked with a heavy limp. Eleanor tried to calm him but he paid no heed and set about her with accusations of betrayal.’

  Vargas’s face gr
ew dark with torment as he continued his harrowing tale. ‘The firelight danced about the room as Hugo shook poor Eleanor like a rag doll. He wrapped his brutal hands around her throat and choked the life out of her. As the life drained from her, that portrait was the last thing she saw before the fire took the whole house – including my Hugo.’

  ‘Who are you Vargas?’ Chris was impelled to ask.

  ‘My name is Telfer Vargas Montague, and I am the son of Hugo and Eleanor.’

  ----------

  Carmine Umberto watched as the two young tourists made their way out of the opera house. Their talk of another Montague Portrait was strange. Despite his somewhat meager outward position, he considered himself worldly wise in the subject of art. And he had never heard of there being more than one copy of the Montague Portrait. He had always dismissed the talk surrounding Hugo Montague as the fantasy and idle gossip of children and the elderly. Both groups would always lean towards myths and legends. Children were fertile imaginers who knew no better, and the elderly were close to the grave and desperate to believe in the safety net of an afterlife.

  He busied himself with his remaining duties. It was his job to maintain the old girl and it was a responsibility that he took seriously. He swept and polished, cleaned and buffed. His bones tended to ache a little more these days, but he was still far from finished. He knew each and every corner of the building and every creak and groan.

  His ears pricked as an unfamiliar noise caught his attention. There was one step on the east stairwell that made that sound. He knew the sound as well as any mother knew her child’s gentle breath.

  He stopped his sweeping and looked towards the sound, his ears attuned to the air around him. Someone was here. For a moment he huffed with annoyance. Youths from the local area were forever breaking into the opera house in search of something to steal or an alleviation of their boredom.

  He began to walk towards the sound. He may not have been a strong young man anymore, but his attitude was fierce and he was not beyond protecting his girl – this precious building that was his very life and that he loved more than any human being. Suddenly he heard faint footsteps echoing along the corridor. His forehead crinkled in thought. The local youths were not the most graceful of creatures and not prone to subtlety. As he listened closer he could make out that while one of the sounds was undoubtedly heavy and male, there was the telltale click clack of a woman’s heels. He relaxed as he guessed that the young couple had returned. Perhaps they had left something behind.