Golden Icon - The Prequel

by Janet Pywell

  ‘Money? Did you keep cash?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘What a stupid question.’ Raffaelle begins pacing up and down and I am grateful he is here to act as an intermediary between me and Santiago.

  ‘Who would break in here during daylight hours? If you have nothing of value what were they looking for? Who are they? Or were they working alone?’ Santiago nonchalantly taps the photograph on the palm of his hands.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Raffaelle asks.

  When Santiago crouches down beside me his nose is level with mine. There are tiny blackheads on his cheeks and lines at the corner of his eyes. He holds the photograph between his index finger and his thumb and I refuse to look at it.

  ‘Padre Paolo is concerned about your safety. He has been concerned about your welfare. Is there anyone who you may think is responsible for this? Can you think of anyone who would cause damage to your property? What are they looking for?’

  I am shaking my head but my mind is working frantically. I dare not glance at the photograph in his hand. He is taunting me.

  I think of the man at Raffaelle’s villa. Karl Blakey in Comaso who once broke into my home in Germany. Barbara whom I sent on a wild goose chase. The Golden Icon buried in the woods, and Maximilian Strong and his nephew.

  Michael and Seán are dead. Michael and Seán are dead.

  I am shaking. I cannot speak.

  Raffaelle places his hand on my head and strokes my hair. ‘There was a man at my villa yesterday. I don’t know who he is but he is not from here. He wore a suit and sunglasses and he has a shaved head.’

  The uniformed man returns holding my sapphire necklace in his hand. I take it from him and hold it to my chest. It was my last gift from Michael.

  ‘It was under some clothes, so they were looking for something else,’ he says.

  ‘What time?’ Santiago rises to his feet and stares at Raffaelle.

  ‘About four o’clock and then early evening.’

  ‘Last night I met you in Luigi’s. I asked you if you needed help but you didn’t say anything.’

  ‘I didn’t know he was going to do this, did I?’ Raffaelle replies.

  ‘You still don’t know it was him, Signor Peverelli.’ The man in the police uniform says. ‘It is not a normal robbery. They did not take your necklace, and they have damaged your property. It is more of a warning.’

  ‘Are you sure nothing is missing?’ Santiago insists. His eyes are inquisitive. It’s as if an invisible current runs between us and I am locked in his gaze. I cannot tear my eyes from his. Does he know?

  ‘Give her a chance to tidy the apartment.’ Raffaelle pushes himself between me and Santiago as if to snip our invisible contact. ‘Perhaps something is missing, she just doesn’t know yet.’

  ‘I will get to the bottom of this.’ Santiago places the photograph on the table beside my elbow and pauses at the door. ‘I’m not sure what it is you want to hide, Signora Lavelle, I only hope that whatever it is, that it is more important than your life. Whoever these people are or whatever they want, they are determined. They have done this damage but it could have been far worse. Consider the possibility that you may have been here. Do you think they would be too polite to harm you?’

  Raffaelle’s grip tightens on my shoulder and Santiago continues speaking.

  ‘If they haven’t found what they’re looking for this time, they will be back and believe me, there will be a next time. You are playing a very dangerous game and they will not stop until they find it. These people will show you no mercy. Are you sure it is worth risking your life?’

  Raffaelle helps me tidy the apartment. We fill countless rubbish bags that he carries down to the bin and I sweep the floor. I refuse to stay at his villa so he brings me plates and glasses from his home and food supplies from the village.

  ‘I wish you would stay with me,’ he says on his return. ‘It is crazy for you to be here on your own.’

  ‘I will not be intimidated.’ I know he is thinking I am stubborn. ‘Karl Blakey did this. I saw him this morning down at the harbour and he told me that William, Seán’s brother, is now after the family heirloom.’

  I do not mention that Karl wants to find out why and how Seán was blackmailing me and would do anything to rattle me.

  I hand Raffaelle books to place on the shelves.

  ‘He would do this damage?’

  ‘And worse! Nothing will stop him. He bugged my house once.’

  ‘And what about the thug hanging around the villa? Do you not think it could have been him?’

  ‘Dieter said that Maximilian and his nephew Ian are dangerous. They import women from eastern Europe, and he forces them to work in brothels. Just supposing, it was Ian who killed Seán. He didn’t know what he was looking for, that’s why he stole the copy of the Turner from his study but when they realised it was a fake they decided to watch the house and follow Barbara. That would have led them here, to me.’ I hand him more books which he places randomly on different shelves.

  I continue, ‘I think they followed Barbara here, to Comaso. It’s obvious. They didn’t know about me until this week.’

  ‘So, you think they are still following her?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was here yesterday at your villa, the same time Barbara was here with me. If she left on the last ferry last night and, if he hasn’t been around today, maybe they followed her and they both went to Munich.’

  ‘Barbara would be there by now. She will know that you are lying. Dieter will have told her that you took the Golden Icon. She will come back here but you don’t want to give her the icon now, do you?’

  ‘It’s about doing what is right.’

  ‘So what are you going to do? It is getting dangerous. Look at this mess. You could have been here. You could have been hurt.’

  It was something I didn’t want to think about.

  Raffaelle slams down the books. ‘What if you are wrong and it wasn’t Karl Blakey who trashed your apartment? What if it is Maximilian and Ian? You are in danger.’

  I stare at the debris on the floor and my tainted piano. ‘I think I will take the icon to the refectory of the Santa Maria della Grazie.’

  ‘The church?’ Raffaelle tugs on his moustache. ‘Ah, Josephine, you fill me with despair. You won’t let me take it to my friend Sergio in Lenno?’

  ‘It would never bring us any luck. Anyone who wants to use it for their own gain…’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know. But your life is in danger. Your flat has been ransacked and all you want to do is to take the most valuable and priceless icon in Europe and give it to the church.’

  ‘It isn’t the church exactly. It’s more of a museum. They will know what to do with it. I can leave it anonymously. I don’t want to get involved with the Italian Art Squad. I don’t want them asking questions about Dieter and Michael, and the past.’

  ‘And what about this Maximilian and Ian? Do you think they are going to just go away and leave you alone?’

  ‘He will when he realises I haven’t got it.’

  ‘You are delusional! I don’t understand you.’ He throws the few remaining books onto the shelf. ‘I have had enough. You care nothing for me. There is no point in speaking to you any more. You are beyond reason. You are selfish and difficult.’

  ‘Raffaelle–’

  ‘It is simple.’ He holds up his hand in protest to me. ‘You don’t love me. That is the truth in all of this.’

  ‘Raffaelle, wait…’

  But he is gone. I listen to his footsteps receding down the stairs, the slam of the front door and this time I know he won’t be back. I am on my own.

  9

  Chapter 9

  The stars were shining, And the earth was scented. The gate of the garden creaked And a footstep touched the sand… - E lucevan le stelle, Tosca

  I spend all afternoon scrubbing golden paint from my battered piano and sorting through music scores; my leather bound copies are torn, pages are ripped and
others merely screwed up and creased. Now I am flattening each page, each score, remembering each opera. It is a lifetime ago and my sadness is overwhelming. I was another woman then; younger, reckless and filled with positive energy and spirit. Now I am defeated. I am no longer me. I am undecided and confused.

  The front door bell rings.

  I tie a knot in the belt of my silk gown and hasten down the stairs, along the corridor, closing the laundry room door. The front door has been mended by Raffaelle’s neighbour who owns the local carpenter shop. I have a new lock and chain.

  When I peer through the spy-hole I am rewarded with a distorted vision of a sandy-headed man in a white shirt and open collar. He looks vaguely familiar.

  I partly open the door.

  ‘Josephine Lavelle?’ His accent is Irish. ‘David Mallory, Irish Consul.’ He holds out a business card. I take it through the gap. ‘I met you at Michael’s funeral. I’m sorry I didn’t telephone first, but I was told you didn’t have a secretary or a press office any more. I’ve come from Milan to see you.’

  ‘Hold on.’ I close the door, remove the chain and open the door.

  There is a sheen of perspiration on his pale forehead. The jacket of his suit hangs over his arm.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ I say.

  He is tall and slim, and his handshake is firm. I am aware of him following me upstairs. I point through the lounge to the terrace. ‘Make yourself comfortable while I dress.’

  I pull on white cut-offs and a cotton printed blouse. The view across the lake is magnificent and I lean out of the bedroom window inhaling the sweet aroma of jasmine. Below me David Mallory has dragged his chair into the shade of the evening sun. He sits with his legs crossed whistling a slow sad tune that I don’t recognise.

  He stands up when I walk onto the terrace.

  ‘Drink? Water, beer, coffee?’ I ask.

  ‘Beer, thank you.’

  I wave my hand for him to sit.

  In the kitchen I rummage for a glass but David Mallory prefers to drink beer from the bottle and I sip sparkling water.

  ‘Beautiful view.’ His sandy head nods toward the lake.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s a long way from Ireland.’

  ‘A different life,’ I agree.

  ‘Michael’s death was very sad.’ He wipes beer from his lips. ‘He was still a very fit man even though he was almost ninety.’

  I cannot imagine Michael that old. He was sixty when our affair began.

  ‘You knew Shona?’ he continues.

  ‘She died shortly after our wedding. Only a few months later. They didn’t tell us how ill she was until afterwards. She didn’t want to ruin our day.’

  ‘That’s Shona,’ he smiles. ‘They were friends of our family for years. I was at school with Seán, and William went out with my sister Brigid, they were together a few years.’

  I pick up my glass and the bubbles tickle my tongue.

  ‘We were all close but then I lost touch. I was abroad. That’s why I wasn’t at your wedding. I went to Canada. I–’

  ‘Mr Mallory.’ I put my glass back on the table. ‘I–’

  He smiles and holds up his beer bottle. ‘I’m sorry. It’s been a very difficult few weeks as you can imagine. I called you a few times and Inspector Bareldo was kind enough to tell me where you lived, but then I thought it would be better that I came to see you in person.’ He looks around appreciatively. ‘I’m so pleased that I did. This is far more convivial than the heat in Milan, and besides a change of scene clears the head and gives a different perspective on life.

  ‘You sang very well at Michael’s funeral. It was beautiful and you were missed at Seán’s. It was a shame that you couldn’t come over for it.’

  ‘I sent flowers.’

  ‘You understand this has all been devastating for Barbara and the children. It has been such a shock. Did you know it was a burglary too?’ He pulls his chair further into the shade.

  ‘William told me.’

  David Mallory looks away. He looks tired like a man who wants to get home; home to a cooler climate. Home to a place with no problems.

  ‘We don’t really know what he was looking for,’ he says, ‘although he stole the Turner. You remember the one hanging in Seán’s study? It’s unusual. You see, Seán thought he was a mourner and a friend of Michael’s and so they went to his study but it doesn’t seem likely that he killed Seán for a fake painting.’ His pale eyes focus on my face. ‘Perhaps you can help us?’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘I’m working with the Gardaí in Ireland.’

  In Luigi’s restaurant Santiago told us David Mallory was working with the Gardaí, and although I knew it would just be a matter of time until they tracked me down, my pulse races. I am conscious that I must regulate my breathing but my palms begin to perspire.

  Does David Mallory have my letter? Does he know my secret?

  I tilt my face in what I consider to be an enquiring manner and he continues speaking.

  ‘You see, the thing is, the police think that Seán was killed because the burglar was looking for something; something very valuable. We know that you had a lengthy conversation with Seán after the funeral and we need to know if he mentioned anything to you. Did he say anything about a valuable painting or a piece of artwork to help him pay off his debts? The thing is–’ He holds up his hand and his golden wedding band glistens in the sunlight. ‘We know he asked you to go to Germany. We found the receipt for your plane ticket on Seán’s computer. We are trying to establish if there is a link between Seán’s murder, the stolen painting and your trip to Munich.’

  I sip water and the bubbles are salty on my lips. Although my movements are slow and deliberate I am thinking quickly.

  ‘The strange thing is,’ he continues. ‘Seán booked a return ticket for you, but you didn’t travel back to Ireland. Did you? Why would Seán pay for your return ticket to Germany? Unless you were doing something for him?’

  ‘I went to visit someone.’

  He takes a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket in the top of his shirt. ‘Dieter Guzman?’

  ‘Yes.’ I know now, that he knows more than he is telling me. He is trying to trap me.

  ‘Dieter Guzman is a collector of artefacts, paintings and hidden treasures,’ he says, ‘unfortunately for him, they are not all his. Most of them are stolen or they are forgeries, but there is one piece that I am looking for Miss Lavelle, I don’t care about anything else. I am looking for a solid gold icon of the Madonna and her child. It’s called The Golden Icon.’

  ‘Does it belong to Seán?’ I ask.

  ‘It belongs to Ireland. Let me tell you something of our Irish history; on the fifth of April 1829, Pope Pius VIII was ordained as Pope. He was sixty-seven years old. He was feeble and afflicted with terrible and painful sores on his back. He was so ill, all he could do was sign papers presented to him by Giuseppe Albani, the cardinal who ruled the Papal States autocratically as if he were the Pope himself.

  ‘At this time there were many events happening in England, Ireland and in Europe as it was then divided. Many people in England believed in the divine right of Kings; the legitimacy of hereditary nobility, and the right and privileges of the Anglican church and there was a vigorous campaign which led to the Roman Catholic Relief Act.

  ‘Although the Home Secretary Sir Robert Peel opposed emancipation, he knew that civil strife would be an even greater danger and would cause a revolution in Ireland. Basically, they feared an uprising. They feared a rebellion.’ He swigs from his beer bottle and wipes his lip. ‘You see, Miss Lavelle, this Act allowed members of the Catholic church to sit in parliament at Westminster but it was a compromise. What it really did was to deprive the minor landlords of Ireland. Any man who owned or rented land was permitted to vote but–’ He waves his finger. ‘Here’s the catch, they raised the price they had to pay, from forty shillings to ten pounds. Now, if you don’t understand our old currency, forty shillings was
equal to two pounds, so it was a mere rise of 400 percent.’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘That wouldn’t have made the British popular,’ I say.

  ‘Exactly! So, the Golden Icon was sent to Ireland to fund an Irish Rebellion in 1830 but it was stolen from the Bishop’s house without ever reaching the rebels and it ended up back in Europe.’ He leans back and folds his arms.

  ‘Why are the Gardaí working with you, Mr Mallory?’

  ‘Why?’ He looks surprised. ‘Because I am Seán’s friend and I am also the Irish Consul in Milan, and, I am working on behalf of the Irish government.’

  ‘I wouldn’t think this is normally the role of the Irish Consul.’

  ‘No, but this is a delicate matter Miss Lavelle, and one that we wish to resolve quickly. If the Italians realise that the Golden Icon is in Italy, it would, as they say, be a whole new ball-game. No-one wants to involve the infamous Italian Art Squad.’

  ‘Did Barbara visit you in Milan?’ I ask.

  ‘Barbara?’

  ‘Yes, she came here yesterday to this apartment to see me. She is in Italy. I’m sure you know that. She was asking me similar questions to you, and I told her I didn’t take the Golden Icon. I left it in Germany. When I saw it I decided I wasn’t going to carry it through customs. A stolen Golden Icon in my possession would do me no favours if I was caught, Mr Mallory. Also, at that time, I was attempting to resuscitate my career but Seán hired Karl Blakey, a journalist who wrote about my downfall four years ago, to blackmail me into going to Germany. He threatened to tell Karl where I lived. The thing is, Mr Mallory, it doesn’t make sense that you’re working with the Gardaí. Why is the Golden Icon important to you? Are you doing this for the Irish government as you say, or simply for Barbara? Because it could only have been Barbara who told you that the family heirloom is the Golden Icon, no-one else knows. Are you here because you want to reclaim it for her?’

  David Mallory rubs his face. ‘Barbara did come to my office in Milan. So I researched what she told me and I spoke to the Gardaí. There are many people interested in its recovery. It doesn’t belong to Barbara but it does belong to the Irish government.’