Last Rights

by James Green

  The nun looked at Jimmy. He wasn’t her idea of what an art expert should look like.

  ‘Are you qualified to do that? Do you know about art?’

  ‘I’m a cradle Catholic. I know enough to recognise the Stations of the Cross when I see them.’

  It helped but it wasn’t enough.

  ‘And why you? You’re not Canadian, you’re English, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you a detective of some kind? Do you have any identification?’

  ‘No, I have no identification but I am a detective of some kind. Before I retired I was a detective sergeant in the London Metropolitan Police.’

  She was almost there but still not absolutely sure about him.

  ‘But you are no longer a detective in the London Metropolitan Police.’

  ‘No. I live in Rome. When I retired I went to Duns College.’ On hearing about the college that trained mature men for the priesthood, the thaw in her manner was visible. It was just what she needed to take his story on board. Jimmy pressed on. ‘After one year I decided that, unfortunately, I didn’t have the vocation I’d hoped. But I stayed on in Rome. Occasionally I get asked to look into something, something the Church needs to have handled discreetly. I always act unofficially, you must understand that I do not represent the Church in any official way. I simply look into something and make a report which can be acted upon if necessary.’

  He had hoped that his outright denial of any official status with the Church would swing it. It did. Con-men don’t force their total lack of status on you.

  ‘Report to whom?’

  ‘There is a monsignor in Rome who liaises on behalf of the Vatican with a senior professor at the Collegio Principe. Between them they, as I said, arrange for certain things that might prove damaging to the Church to be looked into and, if necessary, dealt with.’

  ‘Such as stolen art in Canadian convents?’

  That was good, that was almost a joke. He smiled and she smiled back. It was now almost a conversation between old cronies.

  ‘I’d rather not give you the name of the monsignor nor that of the professor at the Collegio, but I can if you insist.’

  She gave it one last run in her mind. Certain words and phrases in his explanation made all the difference, especially that snippet of Latin, Collegio Principe. The mixture was too rich to resist.

  ‘No, I will not insist.’

  Jimmy felt himself relax, he was across the line, but only by a hair’s breadth. It had been a damn close-run thing.

  ‘Then if I can see the Stations I will leave you in peace and you can dismiss this unfortunate and, as you say, sordid matter from your mind.’

  ‘I’m afraid you cannot see the pictures. They are crated and awaiting removal for cleaning and then valuation.’

  ‘Valuation?’

  ‘For insurance purposes.’

  ‘But if they belong to the convent you could…’

  ‘They are not the property of the convent. They were loaned to the convent about twenty-five years ago by Mrs Anna Sikora. She is very elderly now and not at all well, I believe. Her son has been given power of attorney for her and he wished the Stations taken away to be cleaned and then valued for insurance purposes.’

  ‘Her son?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jimmy didn’t like the idea of a son. He was looking for a twenty-something woman, not a fifty- or sixty-year-old man. He needed time to think so he asked the first question that came into his head.

  ‘When were they last valued?’

  ‘Never that I know of.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘No. When I became Mother Superior five years ago I found that the Stations weren’t insured and apparently had never been valued. To the best of my recollection only two or three of them have ever been removed for cleaning and that was many years ago.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I thought it was an oversight so I got in touch with Mrs Sikora. But she was adamant that they should not be valued or insured. She said that under no circumstances were the Stations to leave the Convent nor be examined in the convent for insurance purposes except with her express written permission. She assured me that as art they were of no value whatsoever. She also said that even if it turned out they had some small value it was irrelevant. They were works of devotion, that was their purpose and that was the only value she or we should care about. That and nothing else. As I said, she was adamant so I accepted her wishes in the matter. But her son now has power of attorney and he, very sensibly in my opinion, wishes them to be properly insured and prior to valuation has decided they should all be thoroughly and professionally cleaned. They have been taken from our chapel, crated, and are now awaiting collection.’

  Bells were ringing. Never valued before but being valued now and being taken away to be cleaned prior to valuation. That had to be the way Lawrence was going to get hold of the stolen art. The Stations might come back, but not the paintings under them. Lawrence would have got her stolen art with nobody the wiser and she’d be free and clear.

  ‘In that case my work in this matter is at an end.’ Jimmy stood up. ‘If you could give me Mrs Sikora’s address, just as a matter of record, I think I can safely say no more will come of this whole sad business and I can go back to Rome to make my report.’

  Sr Teresa gave Jimmy the address.

  ‘Mrs Sikora is, as I said, very elderly, and her son says not at all well.’

  ‘That’s alright. I don’t intend to talk to her. I’ll get what I need from the son. It’s just to let my monsignor and the professor know who actually owns the pictures. You’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘Not at all, Mr Costello.’

  They stood up. Sister Teresa went to the door and Jimmy followed her. In the corridor he decided he’d have a shot at one last question.

  ‘Were they good paintings, do you think, the Stations?’

  ‘They were both shocking and powerful. It wouldn’t surprise me that, despite what Mrs Sikora said, they were in fact quite valuable.’

  ‘Shocking and powerful?’

  ‘Yes, very modern and quite unlike traditional representations of Our Lord’s Passion and Death. I remember vividly our reaction here when they arrived all those years ago and were first hung in the Chapel. I was a young novice and had been brought up on traditional Catholic devotional art. To me they seemed almost blasphemous after what I was used to. Most of the older nuns were equally shocked but after a while, as we got used to them, as we prayed in front of them, it became obvious that whoever had painted them had done so with an incredible passion and had drawn from a deep and abiding faith to create them. They were cruel yet compelling, just as Christ’s Passion was both cruel and compelling. Slowly I, like the others, came to see them for what they were, a shocking and powerful commentary of the most shocking and powerful event the world has ever seen or will see. Where at first the manner of their depiction shocked and repelled and almost defied you to look at them, slowly they drew you in and began to reveal an inner power, the power of Christ’s love seen through his suffering.

  ‘Over the years we have all come to cherish them. They remind us each day that even in the face of Divine Love humanity can still be guilty of the most awful cruelty. One cannot look at them without feeling an impulse to prayer. Christ hanging on the cross is depicted almost like some carcass of butchered meat. As I said, shocking and powerful. Wonderful works of deep devotion. My only reservation about them is that the artist, whoever it was, made the pictures of different sizes. The Crucifixion is the largest and the Agony in the Garden is the smallest. It seems he used size in some sort of metaphorical way, perhaps to express a hierarchy of importance which, of course, would be quite inappropriate. However, nothing can be done about that so we must accept them as they are.’

  They’d reached the front door.

  ‘I see. Well I hope you get them back soon cleaned, valued and properly insured. Once that’s done any story of stole
n art would be too ridiculous even for the Church’s most bitter critics to take seriously.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Another nun came into the hall.

  ‘There’s a call for you, Mother. Some man about collecting the Stations.’

  Jimmy went to the door.

  ‘I’ll get out of your way. Once again, thank you.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Costello.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Jimmy pulled the heavy wooden door of the convent shut behind him and started walking. The pictures were on the move. He hadn’t missed them but it had been close. This had to be what Lawrence was waiting for. Either she knew some way to hijack the Stations for long enough to get the stolen paintings out from underneath, or she’d got the son mixed up in it and would get them through him. Hijacking didn’t sound right, it was chancy and she didn’t strike him as the kind who took too many chances. Get them through the son? Possible.

  If Mrs Sikora was in her nineties the son had to be a good age himself, sixties or seventies. Still, old age didn’t stop people being greedy. But Jimmy wasn’t at all convinced that Lawrence was the sort to split the goods with anybody. Of course sonny boy wouldn’t know that and Lawrence could dispose of him once she had her hands on the paintings and didn’t need him any more. What was one more body? He thought about Lawrence. How had she got the son involved? Was it just the money, simple greed? Plain old-fashioned sex wasn’t much of a starter. Or was it? More and more he was beginning to understand that where sex was concerned his judgement was badly compromised. She was a lesbian and didn’t strike him as anything like a femme-fatale who could lure a foolish old man to his doom. But then again she’d looked like that because she’d been playing a part. That was Laura Lawrence at the chaplaincy. Maybe when she wasn’t a lesbian, frumpy, postgraduate English student she looked quite a different Laura Lawrence. She’d killed to get her hooks into the paintings, so providing Sikora’s son with the kind of sex he wanted, wouldn’t be something she’d draw any line at. If he made it possible for her to get what she wanted, then she’d see that he got what he wanted, whatever it was.

  Jimmy walked on until he got back into busy traffic and saw a taxi. He gave the driver Mrs. Sikora’s address.

  ‘And on the way stop somewhere I can pick up a pad of notepaper and a pen.’

  The driver nodded.

  As the taxi headed off, Jimmy reflected on the way the nun had talked about the Stations. She hadn’t seemed an overly emotional sort of bird yet those Stations had got right in amongst her. They must be good, bloody good. And she had backed up what Thurlow Somerset had told Tollover: modern and important. Apparently the nun had a good eye for art. Tollover said that they would be a big deal if they got brought out into the open, big enough to put his name up in lights among the art world mandarins. But the Stations on display weren’t what this was about, no matter how good they were. Once those Stations left the convent the paintings under them wouldn’t be coming back. The nuns would get their Stations back, cleaned and valued, but not until what they covered had been removed. And when that happened the stolen art and Lawrence were going to disappear for good. Time wasn’t on his side. Lawrence had a timetable and the whole thing was moving to plan. The crated Stations were on the move and it wouldn’t be easy to keep track of them unless he brought in the police, which meant telling them about the stolen art. He wasn’t ready to do that unless it became absolutely necessary. Lawrence had to go down, but he’d been sent to sort out the stolen art without any fuss, not to drop it into the lap of the local press via some leaky coppers, so he’d follow his Sikora lead and see where it took him. If the son was…

  The taxi pulled up. Jimmy looked out. It was a shop selling greetings cards. He didn’t want that kind of notepaper but it would have to do.

  ‘I’ll be right back.’

  The driver waited until Jimmy came back then pulled away. Jimmy put the pack of notepaper and the pen on the seat beside him and looked out of the window. They were leaving the centre of the city and heading towards the suburbs. Jimmy’s mind went back to the pictures. Something was wrong. Somerset thought the modern stuff important and very valuable. The nun was obviously deeply impressed by them. When you put her description of the paintings alongside Somerset’s you didn’t come up with the sort of art whose only purpose was to hide some serious stuff. It didn’t make sense. If you want to hide a painting you don’t cover it with something that would draw people’s attention to it. You cover it with something worthless and God knows he’d seen enough Stations and other Catholic religious art to know it wouldn’t have been hard to do. It was a niggle and Jimmy had never liked niggles, too often it meant he’d missed something or gone down the wrong line.

  The taxi had moved into a quiet tree-lined street where the houses had enough garden space to be almost classed as ‘grounds’. The driver was taking it easy looking for the right address. If this was where she lived Mrs Sikora had the money to make sure she could grow old gracefully.

  Jimmy picked up the pack of notepaper, opened it and took out a sheet. It had yellow flowers and bluebirds at the top. He picked up the pen and started to think. This needed to be worded properly. Finally he found the words he wanted and started to write.

  When he had finished, something a writer had said on a TV chat show came back to him. He had been asked, what sort of writing paid the most? Ransom notes. It had been a clever reply, but unfortunately it wasn’t true. Jimmy looked down at his sheet of paper. There were other notes that could be worth a lot more if you knew where to send them.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The door was opened by a smartly dressed, middle-aged woman. She smiled at Jimmy, another friendly face.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Could you give this note to Mrs Sikora?’ He handed over his note. ‘I’ll wait here for the reply if there is one.’ She didn’t seem to want to take the note. ‘It’s about some pictures, Stations of the Cross that belong to Mrs Sikora. They’re on extended loan at the Convent of the Sisters of Perpetual Prayer. I’ve just come from Sr Teresa, the Mother Superior. She asked me to call but, as Mrs Sikora doesn’t know me, I thought I’d send her a note to explain what it’s about. Please read it yourself if you wish.’

  The maid or housekeeper or whatever she was took the note and opened it. She looked at the note then back at Jimmy. The notepaper didn’t match how Jimmy looked, she didn’t have him down as the yellow flowers and bluebirds type.

  ‘Sorry about the notepaper. I bought it on my way over.’

  She smiled again, Jimmy thought it looked a bit forced this time, but she went back to the note.

  Dear Mrs Sikora,

  I’ve been asked to talk to you about the valuation and care of your pictures, both sets, the Stations of the Cross and the other works under them.

  James Costello.

  The woman seemed reassured but not so reassured that she asked him in.

  ‘Please wait here.’ There was no smile this time as she closed the door. Jimmy waited. A few minutes later the door opened and this time he was invited in.

  It wasn’t such a very big house, a family of six with servants, a governess and a lot of entertaining to do might have found it a squeeze. Jimmy looked around the hall and at the staircase. Mrs Sikora may have her problems but money wasn’t one of them. They went up to the first floor and along a corridor to a door. The woman knocked and went in. Jimmy followed.

  He expected to see her in bed but she was neatly dressed and sitting in a comfortable-looking chair by the big bay window. She was small and fragile-looking in that way very old people have. Her hair was white and pulled up. Her hands were folded in her lap. She was old alright, but Jimmy could see no sign of ill-health. In fact, if her eyes were anything to go by, she was good for another ten years at least.

  ‘I understand you want to see me about some pictures?’

  Her voice was as frail and fragile as she was, but steady and in control. Jimmy’s note hadn�
��t frightened her, whatever else it had done.

  ‘Yes, the Stations of the Cross and the other ones.’

  ‘The other ones?’

  ‘The ones you have been storing. I think it’s time they were re-valued. From what I’ve been told they haven’t been valued for a very long time and it’s a pity to keep such great art in storage. If they were properly insured they could be brought out of hiding, so to speak, and perhaps put on display somewhere.’

  The expression on her bird-like face didn’t change and the eyes looking at him were bright. Her body might be frail but she didn’t look like a woman who had lost any of her ability to think.

  ‘Well, if we must talk about my pictures I suppose we must. Bring a chair across for Mr Costello, Mary, then you can leave us.’

  Mary brought a chair to the window and placed it facing Mrs Sikora. After a little fussing over the old lady she stood up.

  ‘Don’t talk for too long, it will make you tired.’

  ‘No, we won’t talk too long, will we, Mr Costello?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Mary left and closed the door behind her. Jimmy sat down.

  ‘What is it you wish to discuss about my paintings?’

  ‘Are we talking about the modern ones, the Stations of the Cross, or the ones hidden underneath them?’

  She took the point.

  ‘Please tell me why you have come?’

  ‘A friend of mine in London was killed, someone ran her down in a car. I intend to see that the person who was responsible for her death pays for the crime.’

  ‘And where do my paintings fit in?’

  ‘Your paintings were the reason my friend was killed. A young student at Vancouver University was also killed because of them and a New York art dealer. And there was a nun, Sr Gray, she ran a chaplaincy here in Vancouver.’