The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries)

by Connie Shelton

  He turned and walked to the nearest post office.

  “I need this item wrapped for shipping,” he told the clerk. “And postage enough to mail it to New Mexico.”

  While the clerk wrapped the box, Patrick scribbled a note to his mother. Please keep this safe. It’s very important to me.

  Chapter 10

  Magic Goes Missing

  Cardinal Luca Pancetti gathered his red robe tightly about him as he followed the young priest who led the way and switched on lights in the dim and dusty catacombs. Pancetti knew of this area of hidden Vatican tunnels and alcoves. He had once visited here as a much younger man at the time of his assignment to serve in Rome—the day he had learned that this would be one of his life’s responsibilities.

  They rounded a corner, moving deeper into the maze of corridors. Glass light sconces gave way to a string of bare bulbs running along the center of the low ceiling. Dark smudges along the walls attested to the fact that illumination here had once consisted of burning torches.

  “It should be just through here,” said the priest in a hushed voice. He consulted a note his superior had scribbled on onionskin paper.

  The young priest aimed a battery-powered flashlight toward a dark alcove to reveal a heavy wooden door. A key, produced from inside the cardinal’s robe, worked smoothly in the ornate metal lock and the door swung open as smoothly as if it had been oiled yesterday. Perhaps it had. Pancetti knew nothing of the daily operations of this section of the massive underground archives, nothing other than his personal mandate. To check the contents of Chamber 13, the place allocated to storage of those items deemed heretical.

  The study of so-called magical objects, of the Church’s long battle against the intrusion of Satan himself into the world, had become Pancetti’s life’s work. As a youngster he’d been fascinated with tales of an old woman in his village who claimed to foretell the future. Young Luca lingered outside her cottage, hoping to learn exactly how she did this, until the day his mother discovered him there and with an incredibly strong grip on his left ear hauled him home. The next day he was enrolled in a program for troublesome boys under the tutelage of a rather strict order of monks. At their severe hand, he’d learned discipline and that it was wise to keep one’s opinions to oneself. His fascination with things of a supernatural nature had never waned, but he kept his collection of reading material well hidden and his views were shared with no one.

  Twenty years ago, Luca Pancetti had been called into a meeting in a narrow, backstreet building. The group called themselves OSM. How they ferreted out his secret was unclear; he suspected the orderly who cleaned his rooms may have discovered the false drawer in his bookcase. No matter—the organization had a mission for Pancetti and it was on this errand he came now.

  He knew little of their history, only that once during the reign of each pope it was required that OSM’s special emissary come to this secret chamber to inventory the artifacts and assure there had been no tampering. Although none of those influential men publicly acknowledged that a mere relic could contain power, it would not do for any such item to leave their control. Pancetti carried with him a list of some fifty objects which had been gathered during the past five centuries.

  As the door to the chamber swung open he privately wondered why the organization’s leader had called upon him now. The man gave no indication, other than to thrust this list into his hands and give the written instructions which had brought him here. It was no secret that Pius XI’s health was precarious—a heart condition, they said—and the fact that his physician was the father of Mussolini’s mistress probably did not bode well for the pope who had publicly denounced both Fascism and Nazism. Luca put this line of thinking aside; Vatican politics did not interest him.

  He dismissed the young priest, who took his flashlight and closed the door. Pancetti switched on his own battery-powered lantern in the absolute darkness. What interested him were the artifacts in this room. His previous visit to the catacombs had taken him only to the outer door; now he stared in fascination at the niches built into these sacred walls. Illuminated only by the lantern, and therefore limited in the amount of time he could spend on this visit, he began. A less-enthused man would start at the first compartment and tick off the first item on his list, but Pancetti found himself walking past a bowl of small amulets, some books, a metal cask reputed to expand in size until a grown man could climb inside and travel to another universe. He focused, instead, on a gemstone that sparkled in the dim light. Even the coating of dust on its glass case did not dull the fact that this was an extraordinary item. Luca reached out to touch it.

  No, he reminded himself, pulling his hand back. He’d been given a few short hours in which to conduct the inventory. If he moved quickly to check the items on the list, perhaps there would be time to actually handle a few of the most interesting ones later. He hastily checked off five amulets, a dozen books purported to contain magic spells, and the glowing gemstone. The next item on the list must be special indeed. Not on display in one of the niches, a description was provided for the means to reach this one: a stone one meter from the southwest wall would have small crosses etched on two of its rough-hewn corners. Press gently on the left edge of it and a compartment would be revealed. His heart beat faster. This, surely, must be a very important object to deserve such special treatment.

  Already, his light was growing dimmer. He scanned the walls, unsure of direction here in this place more than twenty meters below ground. Southwest. Which way was it? His eyes were drawn to a section of wall that contained no other niches; he began his examination there. Finally, nearly a foot above his head he spotted the two small etched crosses. Standing on tiptoe he reached for the left edge and pressed. The stone released without a sound and slid outward, providing an easy edge to grip. He pulled it out of its place. Fascinating. It must be spring-loaded in some fashion. How had men of the thirteenth century concocted these mechanisms, he wondered. But there was no time to ponder it now. The lantern flickered.

  Luca cursed the fact that he had been a slight child and had not grown taller as a man. He could not see into the empty space revealed by the missing stone. Glancing around the room he found nothing to stand upon other than the stone he had just removed. He placed it on the floor and found that it was precisely the size of his two feet if he stood carefully on it. The lantern flickered again and he raised it to the black hole in front of him. He could not see anything.

  The space was supposed to contain a box of some sort. By the code markings on his list this was considered one of the collection’s most important items. He jammed the lantern closer to the opening. Nothing. He ran his hand inside as far as he could reach but the space was empty.

  His heart thudded now with a sound that must surely be echoing from the walls. An artifact was missing, and on his vigil! He’d been told a month ago to conduct the inventory count and be ready in time for tonight’s meeting. Why had he waited until the last moment? Had the box disappeared within the past few weeks? It did not matter, he realized. The box was lost while under his care and now he had to report it to the powerful men of the OSM.

  The lantern faded, like a candle guttering its last few moments. He stepped down and quickly replaced the stone in its slot. Before he’d turned the key in the lock, the light went out.

  * * *

  “It was there at the last inventory!” shouted the leader, a sharp-jawed businessman from Zurich named Humboldt.

  “With all due respect, sir, that was nearly twenty-five years ago.”

  Luca Pancetti silently thanked the priest who had spoken up. Had he uttered the same words, his protestation would have sounded much too defensive.

  Humboldt drummed his fingertips on the written list of artifacts. Luca had returned to the chamber with a fresh light, finished counting all the other items and thoroughly examined the compartment of the missing box. He’d used every remaining minute until he absolutely had to leave for this meeting to check the walls for
other possible hidden spaces. There were none. He told the men this, feeling like a complete failure.

  Faces around the table were grim. A bishop spoke up. “It’s the one we could least afford to lose, the box called Facinor.”

  “And I would remind the gentlemen,” said an American industrialist who had been appointed to the executive committee only four years earlier, “that this is the second of these boxes to disappear in OSM history.”

  Those representing the church bristled. Pancetti could almost hear them growling over the fact that non-clergy had been admitted to the organization. But politics and business were becoming ever more powerful in today’s world; somewhere along the line it had been decided to include the secular.

  The industrialist was still giving a pointed stare toward Humboldt.

  “Way before my time,” the Swiss man answered. “But yes, you are quite correct. I’ve read the history. The disappearance of the box called Manichee during the Inquisition was what prompted the formation of this organization. Our entire directive is to protect these artifacts and to keep them locked away where their powers cannot be misdirected by the average commoner who might possess one.”

  And the missing one now was Facinor, the box whose powers were purported to be evil.

  “I suppose we should launch an investigation,” suggested a priest whose reluctant tone said that the mere idea of investigating anything within the Vatican was practically sacrilege.

  A man at the other end of the table cleared his throat. He was a politician from America and the fact that he had not yet spoken was unusual. “We are fairly certain that The Vongraf Foundation has examined one of the boxes.”

  He reached into an inner pocket of his jacket and brought out a sheaf of vertically folded pages. “In 1910, according to a spy we placed at the time, the piece definitely had paranormal powers. Jimmy himself witnessed a secretary to the director handling the box and the wooden material undergoing changes in appearance.”

  “It must have been the missing box, Manichee,” someone speculated. “Facinor was in our possession when our own 1915 inventory was taken.”

  “There have been tales—call them rumors or speculation, if you will—about the existence of three boxes,” Humboldt reminded them. “We cannot possibly know which one The Vongraf has.”

  “Had. They don’t keep any artifacts that pass through their hands,” said the politician, waving the sheaf of pages. “I verified that myself. The box the foundation examined was returned to its owner. Unfortunately, I could not find out who that was.”

  A dark quiet settled over the group. Luca Pancetti thought furiously. His name had been whispered in the halls of the basilica as a possible replacement for Pius XI when the ailing pontiff’s time came. He would be swiftly withdrawn from consideration if it ever became known beyond these walls that an important artifact had been lost under his care. Not that the official church bureaucracy would acknowledge interest in such items, but the stain of having been placed in charge of something and having failed so miserably … that sort of thing would linger on his record forever.

  “Let me lead the investigation,” he said. “I have the previous inventory sheet. I shall begin by tracing backward in time to find out who had access to that room.”

  Glances flicked around the table. Clearly, some did not want to trust the man who had lost the box in the first place but most of them were looking for excuses to dodge the work. It was difficult to turn down a volunteer. The priest offered a motion to accept Pancetti’s offer and it was quickly approved.

  Two hours later, in his room in Vatican City, Cardinal Pancetti scanned the list he had composed. Everyone stationed within the archives, most everyone who could have handled the key to the special chamber, all members of the OSM directorship during the ensuing twenty-plus years. It was a daunting list. His head was pounding and he reached for the aspirin for the second time since he’d begun the task. How was he to narrow this down and find the thief?

  * * *

  A month later, the pontiff’s condition had worsened and whispered speculation ran rampant in the halls. Pancetti had asked so many pointed questions in his quest for the missing box that his name was less frequently mentioned for the inevitable papal election. The stern-faced Eugenio Maria Giuseppe Giovanni Pacelli seemed to be the front-runner at the moment. But Luca had more pressing concerns. OSM would meet this evening and if he could not present the box itself he was at least expected to come up with a short list of suspects and some viable possibilities as to the item’s whereabouts.

  He could, at least, provide this. After eliminating all of the previous OSM directors and most of the archivists from his list, he felt fairly confident that his quarry was one of three men: a young novitiate whose uncle’s position in the Basilica might have given him access (although unauthorized) to the keys; the uncle himself who was head keymaster for the entire complex, except that the man had an exemplary record for forthrightness and honesty; Giuseppe Santini, a bishop who was overseer of the archives for the two decades before his death.

  He folded the list and tucked it into the concealed pocket within the folds of his red robe as he walked toward the Basilica. Once midday mass was over he would pursue his leads.

  Before nightfall, Luca should have an answer from his source who could testify as to the actions of the youngest of these, the novitiate. He could either report the now-middle-aged man to the directors or cross him off the suspect list. The uncle who had been keymaster, unfortunately, had become rather demented in his old age and currently resided in the Vatican’s rest home, unable on many days to remember his own name. He would be of no help in matters that took place decades ago. Giuseppe Santini, alas, had died nearly ten years ago but Luca had feelers out in the man’s home village to see what his family members might know.

  The Latin words of the service came out by rote, and soon enough Luca joined the procession of clergy as they walked the long center aisle when it was done. He had just crossed the nave when he felt a tap on his arm. Expecting to see a parishioner, he was startled that a black-clad young priest simply placed a folded piece of paper in his hand and walked away. Pancetti switched course and found his way to a quiet garden of roses before he opened it. Written on the small sheet was a name, Marco Santini, and an address in Torino. Luca’s interest quickened. A visit to a relative of the deceased Giuseppe Santini, plus a chance to visit the site where the famed shroud of Turin had been discovered—the week might be both productive and interesting, after all. He stopped at the office of the priest who was an OSM member and said he would not be attending tonight’s meeting. He would be on a train to Torino.

  His mission was accomplished far more easily than he could have imagined. Marco Santini turned out to be a busy man, supervisor of an automotive plant subsidized by Mussolini and one of the few businesses in the city to offer employment in these troubled economic times. Santini met the cardinal in the vestibule of his office building and suggested that they walk together toward the huge manufacturing facility. Luca pulled his traveling cloak tighter around himself as a frigid wind off the Alps whipped past the buildings.

  “It’s a carved box, you say?” Santini asked as they hurried along a sidewalk with missing chunks of concrete. “I remember it, something my brother brought home once.”

  “Do you know where it is now?”

  Santini’s eyes rolled skyward for a moment. “If it isn’t on the shelf in my closet, my wife has probably put it to some use in her sewing room or somewhere. How would I know what the woman does with things?”

  Luca went into his explanation that the box was Church property and must be returned.

  “Take it,” Santini said. “It’s not exactly a beautiful item.”

  They reached the floor of the assembly line and Marco guided the cardinal to a small, windowed foreman’s office. He jotted a note, folded it and wrote an address on the outside. “Go here. If my wife gives you any argument, show her the note. I doubt she will. She�
�s religious. She won’t want to antagonize the Church.”

  And, just like that, within the hour Luca Pancetti held the carved box in his hands. Where the original woodcarver had lightly chiseled a name onto the rim of the box’s lid, the letters had been worn nearly smooth. Not much of the name remained, but the first and last letters were clear enough that he knew he had the box called Facinor.

  From the train station he telephoned his office in the Vatican and directed his secretary to phone the men he wished to attend a special meeting the following night.

  * * *

  Cardinal Pancetti walked into the meeting, his cloth-wrapped bundle held close to his chest, expecting a hero’s welcome. After all, the box had disappeared prior to his taking over the job and he alone had retrieved it. He set the parcel on the table that was surrounded by these dozen important men and gently peeled back the square of black velvet.

  “That’s it?” said the American politician with a sneer. He started to pick it up but Pancetti stopped him.

  “It may seem harmless but there is more to this item than would appear.”

  Humboldt, the leader, openly let out a derisive ‘pah’ and picked up the box. Almost immediately, the wood began to grow ominously dark. He quickly set it back on the cloth, brushing his hands together as if to rid them of dust.

  “Wrap it up, get it back into safe storage immediately,” he ordered.

  Humboldt pushed his chair back, ready to end the meeting and go back to Zurich, but one of the quieter men spoke up.

  “While you were away, Cardinal, there came another lead. I thought it might be of value … in case the trip to Torino proved unfruitful …”

  “Yes, what is it?” Luca worked to keep the impatience out of his voice. Tensions were already running high in the room.

  The priest handed him a piece of paper.

  “Tell all of us,” said Humboldt with more than a trace of impatience.