The Lazarus Bell, an Irish Murder Mystery

by Patrick Dunne

  ‘Like I said when I rang you this morning. You have to see for yourself.’

  I was finding all this intrigue irritating. ‘Can’t you just tell me what it is I have to see?’

  ‘It’s hard to describe,’ she replied, as we headed towards the coffin.

  ‘We’re not wearing any protective gear,’ I said.

  Gayle shook her head. ‘There’s no need. That’s what I was trying to explain when the accident happened. Trust me.’ She skipped ahead and reached the coffin before me. ‘Voilà!’ she exclaimed, whisking the tarp away like a magician.

  The lid had been rolled back just enough to reveal a woman’s face, pale but rosy-cheeked. Her sky-blue eyes were wide open and staring at me. I knew that the poison in lead could arrest decay in corpses, but this one seemed to have come back to life.

  And then I realised I was looking at a painted statue.

  I shook my head in disbelief.

  ‘I know,’ said Gayle. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  I knelt down to examine the sculpture.

  A gilt foliated crown and the refined flesh-tones of the oval face indicated nobility, a queen or a saint – in the context of where we’d found the statue, more than likely a religious figure. There was no veil under the crown, and her hair was straw-coloured. Her red lips were demurely closed but with a faint hint of a smile. Apart from a fine web of craquelure – hairline cracks in the varnish due to age – there was no flaking or chipping of the painted surface. Without touching the statue, I knew it was made of wood.

  ‘A polychrome wooden carving, no less,’ I announced, standing up. ‘And it seems to be in excellent condition. Almost life-size, too, looks like.’

  ‘A rare find, right?’ said Gayle proudly.

  ‘Sure is.’

  ‘Period?’

  ‘I couldn’t say until we get a better look at her.’

  ‘Obviously, being wood, it can be scientifically dated.’

  ‘In time, perhaps. But at this stage there can be no question of taking any kind of sample. Anyway, we’ll have much more fun estimating its age ourselves, don’t you think?’

  ‘You mean you will. Medieval wooden carvings aren’t my strong point.’

  While they aren’t my speciality either, I studied the archaeology of art and architecture for my MA, and my PhD thesis was on the use of broken statuary as rubble-fill in buildings after the dissolution of the monasteries. You can imagine how I wow people at dinner parties with that one.

  ‘For a start, let’s get it out of the sun.’ But how to move it? ‘In fact, let’s remove it from the coffin entirely – it’s no longer airtight, nor moisture- and insect-proof, which I assume were factors in its preservation. We’ll have to try and replicate the environment it was in as best we can, for now.’

  ‘Cool, dark and dry, I imagine.’

  ‘Yes, that sounds right. We’ll take photographs as we go along, too. I assume you’ve taken some already.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Gayle took her digital camera out of a roomy back pocket in her jeans.

  I walked around the coffin and looked at how it was made. It was basically a rectangular box, the sides set into a base that was folded up like pastry and soldered to the side panels. And the lid had been made in the same way. ‘How did you open the lid, by the way?’

  ‘The solder’s turned brittle. The top got a whack when the vault fell down, and some of the solder around it just kind of crumbled, so we were able to pull the lid this far up without much difficulty. I have to say I got a start when I saw what was underneath.’

  I wasn’t sure where we were going to examine the statue once we freed it. The Portakabin we used to assemble and clean our skeletal finds – the ‘incident room’, as we called it – would be far too hot and bright; and anyway, as I looked around the site, I could see it had been dismantled.

  ‘I mean, what’s it doing in the graveyard in the first place? And in a coffin?’ Gayle was still excited and it made her voice shrill.

  ‘Beats me,’ I said. It also torpedoed my husband-and-wife scenario. ‘The question is, where can we put it for safe-keeping?’

  ‘The Heritage Centre?’

  I thought about it for a few seconds. We had mounted a small exhibition in the Castleboyne Library and Heritage Centre earlier in the month. ‘Heritage Centre’ was something of a misnomer – it was really just one large room used for art exhibitions, talks and book launches. The Town Council was unlikely to object to providing the room for the temporary storage of the statue. It had, after all, been found on their property. Or had it? Not that it really mattered. The artefact was the property of the State, which would exercise its ownership through the National Museum.

  ‘Good suggestion,’ I said. ‘You’ll need a couple of strong guys to peel back the lid and get it out – assuming it’s entire. Protective clothing to be worn, including masks and heavy-duty gloves. Put plenty of bubble wrap around it for insulation and ask Peggy to organise transport to the Centre. I’ll sort that out with Dominic Usher in the meantime.’

  Walking back to the car, I found myself dealing with an odd mix of excitement and worry. The find could be of great significance, but there was something extremely odd about its presence in a plague graveyard. The other interment was definitely a human body – why was the carving buried beside it?

  I sat in the car and pondered it for a while, but to no avail. There were no precedents to go on. I decided to phone Finian. He had been a history teacher and was also a keen folklorist. He might have an angle.

  ‘I’m sure you immediately thought of Our Lady of Castleboyne,’ was his opening comment.

  I hadn’t. But I knew what he was referring to: a miracle-working image of the Virgin that had been famous in the Middle Ages. There was a stained-glass window depicting it in St Patrick’s Catholic Church, where I sang in the choir.

  ‘But it was destroyed at the time of the Reformation, wasn’t it?’

  ‘According to the official reports. There’s also a story that it was hidden for another hundred years before being burned as firewood by Cromwellian troops stationed in the town.’

  ‘So, either way, this couldn’t be Our Lady of Castleboyne. In fact, I don’t know yet whether it’s even an image of the Virgin.’

  ‘Maybe it’s Lady Death.’

  The fine hairs on the back of my neck tingled. Lady Death and the Maudlins graveyard: a ghost story that had come up in the research we carried out before the dig. I had paid little attention to it at the time. ‘Remind me of the details.’

  ‘Can we talk about it later, love? I’m up to my neck here right now.’ It was the start of the high season at Brookfield Garden.

  ‘Sure. And I’ll have had a proper look at the statue by then.’

  Dominic Usher was leaning halfway out of the window of his second-floor office when I came in.

  I sat in a chair in front of his desk and coughed politely. Usher folded himself back in and placed an indoor watering can on the floor.

  ‘Ah, Illaun. Just giving the flowers a good drink before the weekend.’ I couldn’t see the window-box outside, but the sweet scent of wallflowers came floating in.

  Usher was in his early forties, with black hair that had receded in that unfortunate way that leaves behind a patchy, isolated tussock at the top of the forehead; his eyebrows, by contrast, were dense thickets. Another anomaly was that, while his lips were loose and pendulous, he hardly ever used them as an aid to speech, preferring to process a steady stream of words through them, as though he had a printer hidden in his mouth.

  He sat down behind his desk and glanced back at the window. ‘You don’t see them as much nowadays. Wallflowers, I mean. I don’t suppose you’d find them at Brookfield Garden?’

  The remark was evidence of a small-town mentality. The implication was that Finian was probably ‘getting above himself’ now that he had an international reputation.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I said. The best way to deal with such jibes was to ignore th
em. ‘What have you done about the spillage?’

  ‘Yes, that spillage,’ he said with a certain amount of irritation. ‘I had to consult the Town Engineer and the Health Service. Fortunately, as it’s a good distance from any residential area and there’s no risk of further leakage, they don’t think there’s much to worry about.’

  ‘They’re probably right. But it might be wise to put someone on security duty there overnight.’

  Usher looked at the clock on the wall behind me. ‘The best I can do at this stage is list it for our mobile security officer to check on his rounds. And I’ll alert the Gardaí to keep an eye out as well.’

  ‘We found something else in the vault. A wooden statue. It had been placed in a lead coffin.’

  I knew by the way Usher looked at me that he was wondering if he should be worried about this further development.

  ‘I haven’t had a good look at the artefact yet, so I can’t tell you much about it,’ I continued. ‘I’ve arranged to have it taken to the Heritage Centre for safe-keeping, if that’s all right with you.’

  Usher frowned. ‘I…I suppose so.’

  ‘The National Museum will take ownership of it, of course. But, as I haven’t notified them yet, that won’t happen until after the weekend. In the meantime, I think I should be the only one with a key to the Centre.’

  ‘It’s usually locked when there’s nothing on, even when the library is open.’

  ‘I know. But I’ll need to go in and out freely. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to place responsibility for its safety on the library staff.’

  ‘All right. I’ll let them know.’ He looked at the clock again. ‘We’d best get this signing off over with.’ He had the documents on his desk. My signature on one would release the excavated land for development by the Town Council. His signature on the other would confirm that the Council was now taking the site in charge.

  ‘There you go, Dominic. You can build your roundabout now,’ I said, sliding the release form over to him.

  He picked it up, sat back and tapped it with his middle finger. Some point was about to be made. ‘Isn’t it great for you people, all the same?’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean, “you people”?’

  ‘I mean archaeologists. On the one hand you complain about development. On the other you milk it for all it’s worth.’

  Usher might have had a chip on his shoulder about people he perceived to be getting above their station, but he wasn’t usually so downright rude. I couldn’t let it pass, and I was about to give him a sharp answer when the phone on his desk rang. As he lifted it to speak, he shifted aside a newspaper that was obscuring a diary he wanted to consult. I recognised the front page of the tabloid, Ireland Today, and realised it was about two weeks old. Now I knew what had provoked the Town Manager.

  Following a public talk on the excavation I’d given in the Heritage Centre, a journalist with Ireland Today had written a piece saying that I had criticised ‘shortsighted’ Town Council officials for destroying the graveyard to make way for a roundabout, and that I was opposed to its plans to develop Castleboyne.

  Usher put the phone down and made an entry in his diary.

  ‘Next time you want to take a swipe at me, Dominic,’ I said, ‘maybe you should check your facts first.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You just made a remark that I know damn well is based on a supposed quote from me in that paper. In an article by Darren Byrne.’

  ‘Are you denying you said it?’

  ‘Someone asked me how much more of Castleboyne I’d like to excavate. I said that excavation was a form of scientific destruction and that it wasn’t the only option open to archaeologists and developers. I added that I wouldn’t like to see Castleboyne dug up from end to end, even by archaeologists, if it meant the place was to be turned into yet another shopping mall. I didn’t object to the destruction of the graveyard, nor did I criticise any officials or use the term “shortsighted”. Byrne put that spin on it to make mischief. And it looks like he succeeded.’

  ‘It still sounds like you’re quite happy to bite the hand that feeds you.’

  ‘Sure, but I try not to draw blood. Because yes, I’m well aware that so-called “development” provides me with a living. But I don’t think that should prevent me speaking out against the erosion of the best features of my home town – the ones that gave it its unique character. I’m not against change per se – archaeologists, of all people, know that humans have always been altering the landscape. But what I do resent are the invitations on the auctioneers’ billboards to come and live in the historic town of Castleboyne with its medieval heritage – which is the very thing their housing developments are destroying. And with your Council’s approval.’

  ‘You have no idea what kind of pressure we’re under. We do our best, but it’s like pushing back the tide.’ Usher’s face darkened. ‘And some of these people will stop at nothing to get their way.’

  Chapter Five

  When I walked into the exhibition area, the statue was standing, facing me, on a low stage that was used for occasional readings and recitals. Gayle and one of the excavation team – Brian Morley, a lanky postgraduate student wearing rimless glasses and a crumpled green bucket hat – were both gazing up at the carving. It was painted and gilded, and I could see immediately that it was of considerable artistic merit. It was also unmistakeably a depiction of the Virgin and Child.

  Mary’s mantle – to my surprise – was bright red, her belted gown entirely gold; the Infant wore a simple white tunic. Balancing the vibrant colours of the clothing were the subtle and lifelike skin tones, ranging from the healthy pink of the child’s face to the pale but rose-flushed complexion of the woman. Even more striking was her expression: I felt that her blue eyes were looking intently at me, while a smile seemed to be playing about her red lips. It was a little unsettling – as if we were both observing each other.

  The statue, not including a circular plinth on which it rested, was about my height. She was standing in a swaying posture, her weight on her left leg, her right knee bent and making an impression through the material of her gown. This feminine pose was emphasised by the sweeping folds of her clothing and by the way her girdle, hanging down almost to the ground, followed the curving line of the drapery. One reason for the way she was standing was that she had the Infant Jesus – almost toddler-sized and also yellow-haired – propped on her left hip, with her left arm under his bottom as he suckled with one hand resting on her shoulder and the other cupped around the outside of her breast, his head inclined away from the viewer, his eyes fixed on his mother’s face. With the fingers of her right hand she was holding open the front of her gown to free her breast. The arch of the Infant’s back completed the convex curve of the carving on that side, and the tilt of his mother’s head counterbalanced it, forming the top of what was esssentially an S-shape, with a short top and an elongated lower section.

  ‘Aren’t the colours amazing?’ said Gayle to Brian as I came up behind them. She stood back a little and took a photograph. They were unaware that I was in the room.

  ‘A bit much for my taste,’ he replied. He took off his glasses and polished them with the end of his T-shirt, as though the colours were still swirling around in them.

  A downlight in the ceiling above the statue had turned Mary’s gilded crown into a dazzling halo around her head. With the two observers looking up at her, it looked incongruously like a moment from a surreal fashion show, one with echoes of a scene from a Fellini film, the title of which I couldn’t remember just then.

  ‘Oh, no, it’s beautiful,’ said Gayle.

  ‘I agree with Gayle,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, hi, Illaun. We’ve only just brought it in,’ said Gayle.

  ‘We had to ask the driver to give us a hand,’ added Brian, putting his glasses back on. ‘It’s heavier than you’d think.’

  I stepped up on the stage and walked around the sculpture. The back of it was fully carv
ed, the mantle falling in folds, her unveiled hair with gilt highlights gathered into two thick plaits that hung down to below her waist, where both were extended by black-and-gold-patterned ribbons dangling almost to the hem of the mantle. Realistic strands of hair were visible in the interwoven braids – an effect achieved by scoring the layer of gesso in which the statue was coated before being painted.

  Up close, the colours of her clothing were breathtaking, undimmed by a patina of any kind. The vivid, glossy red of the mantle was like nail varnish that had just been applied and might still be wet to the touch; the contrasts of light and shadow in the folds of her gilded gown made it look as if it were made of a mysterious metallic fabric. I began to notice smaller details: rows of small buttons on the undersides of her sleeves; red rosettes edged in black decorating her belt and girdle. There was so much to be taken in, but I would have to leave it for another time.

  ‘Too gaudy for you, Brian, eh?’ I said, stepping down to join the other two in front of the stage.

  ‘I’d prefer it plain. Let the material it’s made from speak for itself.’

  ‘And that’s your personal view?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You won’t be insulted if I tell you that it’s been the standard view of sculpture for the past few hundred years.’

  He shrugged. ‘Makes no difference. I still know what I like.’

  ‘Do you prefer black-and-white movies to technicolour ones?’

  ‘Er…no. But I don’t see the connection.’

  ‘Well, maybe it’s not the best comparison, but just imagine a world where films like Gone with the Wind or Finding Nemo went out of favour for the very reason that they were made in colour. It wouldn’t make much sense, would it? After all, so much of the appeal of films like that is based on how they look, how colour is used to achieve a certain effect.’ I nodded towards the statue. ‘Polychrome carvings were the technicolour art form of their day. Do you get my point?’

  ‘Sort of. But what’s the big deal about painting a statue?’

  ‘Aha. You’re still thinking in terms of the statue having an existence prior to being painted, as though that was just a way of taking the bare look off it. But that’s not how the artisans of the time would have thought of it at all.’