The Lazarus Bell, an Irish Murder Mystery

by Patrick Dunne

  Brian shrugged his shoulders. He still wasn’t greatly impressed.

  ‘So what you’re saying is that the painting was as important as the carving,’ said Gayle.

  ‘More so, even. But painting was only part of the process. This was an art form that’s virtually unknown today. You’d start with a piece of timber from which the heartwood had been removed to prevent warping or cracking as it dried out. Then you’d cover the wood in glue and dress it in a fabric like linen, to prevent cracking of the surface decoration. Next, you’d coat the fabric in layers of a plaster called gesso – you might score it, to create the illusion of a textile or, in this case, strands of her hair and that embroidered placket at the top of her dress. You might also use it to create certain features – the fleurons of the crown, for example, or the breast she’s feeding the Infant with.’

  I noticed Gayle and Brian exchanging embarrassed glances. Surely not because I had drawn attention to her breast? I pressed on. ‘Parts that had been carved separately – the figure of the Infant, for example, or the Virgin’s hands – would be dowelled or glued onto the main figure, and cloth would be used to hide the joins between the sections. Then the pigments were applied, and they used gold leaf and coloured glazes to achieve all sorts of effects. The ultimate aim was to create an object that would deeply move the devout observer.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Gayle. ‘Imagine what it would have looked like surrounded by hundreds of twinkling candles, or maybe the light from a stained-glass window… Kind of spooky, if you ask me.’

  ‘You say they used cloth to fill in the gaps between the joins?’ said Brian. ‘Well, it didn’t quite work in this case – look.’ In the air he drew an imaginary line down the centre of the sculpture.

  I looked closer and saw what he was talking about. The gap, though fine, was all too real.

  ‘I thought it was a crack at first,’ he said.

  The matchstick-thin divide ran down the front of the Virgin’s robe, from the embroidered placket to the belt buckle, and from there it continued down one side of the long girdle.

  ‘Looks like the body section was made from two pieces, probably from the same trunk,’ I said. ‘The gap must have widened as the wood contracted.’ Why hadn’t the join been covered by cloth and gesso? It was an unexpected flaw in an otherwise perfect piece. A Monday-morning Madonna and Child.

  ‘Ah, there it is,’ said a voice from the doorway. We turned as one to see Father Louis Burke, parish priest of Castleboyne, floating towards us – an effect he achieved by taking minuscule steps on the tips of his toes. His silver-white hair was carefully combed and he was wearing grey clerical clothing, the lighter colour being his only concession to the summer weather.

  ‘And…oh, my. It’s a Maria Lactans…we never knew.’

  His cheeks glowed like polished apples; his eyes were bright with excitement.

  ‘How do you mean, “We never knew”?’ I asked as he stopped to admire the statue.

  ‘That she was a Maria Lactans – a nursing Madonna.’

  I looked at him blankly. ‘She?’

  ‘Our Lady of Castleboyne. This has to be her image.’

  I shook my head. ‘That image was destroyed.’

  ‘Ah. But was it? There have always been two stories about its fate—’

  ‘Yes, I know, Father – both ending with its destruction.’

  ‘Possibly stories put about to confuse her enemies.’ He stepped up on the stage and walked back and forth a few times, looking at the sculpture from different angles. ‘Hmm. A red mantle, too… Different times, of course…’

  Father Burke began to address us, like an expert on the Antiques Roadshow speculating about an artefact’s provenance. ‘The ancient annals contain numerous allusions to the miraculous image of Our Lady of Castleboyne. But, alas, no description of it has been handed down to us. Its origins are wrapped in mystery – was it borne here across the seas, was it the work of Irish artists?’ He looked at me. ‘Well, perhaps we’re about to find out at last.’ He stepped down from the stage. ‘In the meantime, I’m laying claim to her on behalf of the faithful of Castleboyne. We’ll install her on her own altar, the one near the window – don’t you think that’s appropriate?’

  ‘Hold on, Father. She’s not going anywhere just yet.’

  ‘I know you have to do your recording of the find and all of that. But no way is she going to end up in a museum. Our Lady of Castleboyne represents the living faith on which we in this country seem determined to turn our backs. I regard her discovery as a sign – don’t forget this is Mary’s month…’

  ‘And it’s the twenty-fourth,’ said Gayle. ‘I know, because I’m on annual leave from today – yippee!’

  Damn! I had forgotten to invite her, and whoever else was still around, to a bon-voyage drink at the office after work. Thankfully, Peggy – my secretary – had organised the official wrap party on Wednesday night, because so many of the team had left the next day or by lunchtime on Friday.

  ‘Yes, it’s little short of a miracle,’ said Father Burke, reaching his hand out towards the Infant. ‘And her son’s great feast day, Corpus Christi, is coming up soon. I’d like to have her back in time for that.’

  He was already assuming a proprietorial air.

  ‘No disrespect, Father, but decisions about the future of the statue will be out of all our hands as soon as I’ve notified the National Museum. Under the terms of our excavation licence, the Museum can claim ownership of any archaeological objects we find.’

  The priest waved my argument away. ‘She was here in Castleboyne even before the Normans arrived. And I promise you she’ll still be here long after you and I have gone.’

  With that, Father Burke left.

  ‘He’s pretty determined, isn’t he?’ said Gayle.

  ‘He’s got a point, too,’ said Brian.

  ‘He’s also mistaken,’ I said. ‘She’s not Our Lady of Castleboyne.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘The swing of her hip.’

  They both looked at me wonderingly.

  I looked at my watch. ‘I’ll explain another time. Gayle, it just occurred to me that, with all that’s happened, I forgot to invite you for a drink after work.’

  Gayle put her palm to her forehead. ‘Don’t mention drink,’ she said. ‘Between Wednesday night and Terry’s birthday last Monday, I’ve overdone it. So thanks, but no thanks, Illaun. No more drink for me. Until tomorrow, that is. Tenerife, here I come!’ She grabbed the unsuspecting Brian and danced him away from me.

  Then she whispered something in his ear. He nodded in agreement and they came back towards me, looking a bit shamefaced.

  ‘You were right about part of her crown being made from gesso,’ said Brian.

  Gayle put her hand in a pocket of her jeans and handed me a piece of gilded chalk no bigger than a square of chocolate. ‘We knocked the back of the crown against the side while taking her out. It’s off one of the—’ She drew a shape over her head with her forefinger.

  ‘Fleurons,’ I said. ‘I must say, I didn’t spot that it was missing. And in a way it’s going to be very useful.’

  They both relaxed.

  ‘But the penalty is…’

  They stiffened again.

  I handed the piece to Brian. ‘I want you to bubble-wrap this and send it by courier to Muriel Blunden at the National Museum.’

  ‘That’s all? Sure,’ said Brian, smiling broadly.

  ‘Gayle…’ I looked at my watch. ‘I’m a bit worried about people coming into contact with the spillage. The Council aren’t able to organise on-site security, so maybe we should post someone ourselves. What about Ben? I wonder if he’s available?’

  ‘Big Ben? I doubt it. He called to the site about an hour ago. He said he was starting a new job tonight and wanted his P45, so I sent him off to Peggy.’

  Benjamin ‘Big Ben’ Adelola had been a night watchman on the dig six nights a week from the beginning. Ironically, Terry Johnston
usually took on Ben’s nights off.

  We began to move towards the door. ‘Oh, well. The Council’s spot-checks will have to do. Now – off with you both.’ I gave Gayle a hug. ‘Have a great holiday,’ I said.

  ‘Oops, nearly forgot…’ She dug out the digital camera from her back pocket and handed it to me. ‘How’s Terry, by the way? I should have asked you before now.’

  ‘They kept him in for observation,’ I said. ‘But I’m sure he’ll be fine.’

  ‘I’ll pop in to say goodbye to him,’ she said.

  As we reached the door, Gayle glanced back at the statue. ‘It was funny the way Big Ben reacted to her, actually. A hefty guy like him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We’d just got it out of the coffin and were setting it upright when he arrived. We asked him to give us a hand getting it into the back of the pick-up Peggy had organised. You know what Ben’s like, he’s always really obliging – but he just wouldn’t come anywhere near the statue. I’d swear he was scared of it.’

  Chapter Six

  When I got back to the office, I loaded Gayle’s photos into my PowerBook and e-mailed them to Muriel Blunden, Director of Excavations at the National Museum. I included a brief account of the circumstances in which the artefact had been found and asked her to contact me when she’d had a chance to view the pictures.

  The office was oven-hot – Peggy had locked the windows and doors before leaving for the weekend. I went around opening them all again, including the door to the patio, where I stood for a while letting the inflow of cooler air waft over me.

  Muriel Blunden and I had an odd relationship. Six months earlier, we’d crossed swords over a find close to Newgrange passage tomb, an event that had led to my discovery of her affair with a government minister – a man with whom she had since broken up. But something about the way I had dealt with her at the time, and the fact that I had seen an unexpectedly vulnerable side of her, had brought us closer – in her mind, anyway. But being close to Muriel Blunden was a little like cuddling up to a cactus.

  When she called me half an hour later, it wasn’t long before I was brushing up against her spines. ‘You seem to be on good terms with this Father Burke,’ she said accusingly, after I’d told her of his interest in the carving.

  ‘I sing in the church choir, Muriel, so obviously I know him pretty well. But I left him in no doubt as to the ownership of the artefact. I can tell you, though, if he gets a notion in his head he’ll move heaven and earth to achieve it. I’m just marking your cards.’

  ‘Mark away,’ she said in her husky voice. ‘But I can tell you that he has as much chance of getting his hands on this statue as I have of being the first woman on the moon.’

  She had been interested in the progress of our dig over the months, but the unearthing of the sculpture had really grabbed her attention. A carving of such quality would not only be a welcome addition to the Museum’s small collection of medieval religious statuary, but would have undoubted pulling power as a visitor attraction – something the parish priest wanted to harness too, if for different reasons.

  ‘Father Burke really believes it’s the image of Our Lady of Castleboyne,’ I said. ‘And, if that were the case, it would put the Museum in an awkward position.’

  ‘But the National Museum is full of croziers, chalices, processional crosses, you name it. So what’s the big deal about us keeping another religious artefact?’

  ‘In his view it’s still a sacred object, not a museum piece. It represents medieval piety at its most intense, when the cult of the Virgin was at its height, and he wants to draw on that now, at a time when religious zeal among Catholics is flagging.’

  ‘And what are the chances of it being the image in question?’

  The digital images I’d e-mailed to her were up on both our screens.

  ‘First of all, if it dated from before the Anglo-Norman invasion, as he claims, then I would expect it to be much cruder, stiffer, and the Virgin would probably be seated on a throne. Secondly, the depiction of her as a nursing mother was rare before 1200. To my eye, this is a Gothic carving made sometime between 1250 and 1400. The swaying posture, the projection of the hip, the way the folds of material are deeply carved rather than incised, all suggest it. There’s also a sense of restraint in both the stance and the handling of the clothing, whereas after 1400 you had the development of what are called the “beautiful Madonnas” – they tended to be depicted in swirling drapery, often with dreamy expressions on their faces, the whole effect very sweet.’

  ‘I’m just looking at the back of it now – the long plaits, no veil, that red mantle… What do you make of them?’

  ‘They’re puzzling. But they might help to tell us where she came from, which I doubt was Ireland or Britain. She’s more sophisticated than what we were producing here at the time – what little we have left, anyway. One thing we can be sure of, though: she was made to be seen in the round, possibly in the centre of a railed-off shrine so that large groups of pilgrims could see her from all sides. It would also have made her suitable for carrying in processions on feast days.’

  ‘So what are you saying now? That it was a cult object?’

  ‘It may have been designed as something like that, but there’s one thing about the statue that’s not immediately obvious from the photographs. There’s not a trace of dirt, smoke or candle-grease on any part of the surface, no sign of handling, no chipping or flaking, no damage at all. It couldn’t have been an object of devotion for the best part of four hundred years without some or all of those things happening to it.’

  ‘Couldn’t it have been repaired and repainted? Before being hidden away, I mean.’

  ‘Yes. But that would make the decision to bury it even more peculiar.’

  ‘It wasn’t unheard of for valuables to be secreted in graveyards in those days,’ she persisted. ‘Also, churchyards were outside the jurisdiction of the civil authority – which could be a clue. The statue might have been put there for safety during the time of the suppression of the monasteries. And, as the cemetery was a plague burial ground, maybe fear of infection was being used to deter thieves as well.’

  ‘There is one other possibility that would account for the fresh appearance,’ I said. ‘It’s a fake.’

  Muriel pondered this for a few seconds. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said eventually. ‘And, paradoxically, its pristine condition tells us that. A forger would try to incorporate some wear and tear, add some patina to the surface, rub dirt into the craquelure and so on. No, I think it’s the real thing, all right. Proves the old saying that the best finds always turn up on the last day of the dig.’

  ‘And never where you’ve been looking,’ I finished. ‘It’s true that the only evidence of age is the craquelure, and why go to the trouble of forging that and not anything else? Plus, I guess if the sculpture had turned up out of nowhere and was being offered for sale to the Museum there would be more grounds for suspicion, but we can verify that it was dislodged from a vault where it had been interred alongside a corpse that had been rotting for a considerable time. Ultimately we’ll have to rely on science, I guess. And, with that in mind, I’ve sent you something by courier – it should be with you very shortly. It’s a piece of gesso from one of the fleurons in the crown. It got knocked off when they were lifting her out of the coffin. It should be possible to carbon-date it by AMS, because the gesso more than likely contains animal glue. That’s probably a bit down the line, but in the meantime I’d like the gesso analysed to see whether it’s made from gypsum or chalk – that will give us another clue about the statue’s origins.’

  ‘It still beats me why it was sealed into a lead coffin.’

  ‘Other than to preserve it, I have no idea.’

  ‘Well, it’s my intention to continue to preserve it. We’re the experts when it comes to conserving precious artefacts. Your parish priest would have to have a special climate-controlled environment built to house it. I doubt if he coul
d persuade his parishioners to dig into their pockets for something like that.’

  I wouldn’t put it past him, I thought. ‘It’s an unusual situation, though, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘Most arguments about the ownership of historical artefacts have to do with returning them to the place they came from. This one hasn’t left yet.’

  ‘Well, it’s leaving as soon as possible. I know it’s not five o’clock yet, but the staff I need have already left the office, and they’re out of contact.’ Carpe diem is the rule for fine summer evenings in Ireland – especially at the start of the weekend. ‘I’ll have someone down there as early as I can on Monday. Make sure it’s kept safe in the meantime. Just one more thing – one of these photos is a close-up of what looks like a split in the front of her dress. Is the wood cracked?’

  ‘I think it’s where two major sections once came together. Subsequent drying out seems to have created the gap.’

  ‘All the more reason why we need to have it properly conserved.’

  ‘Sure. For the time being we’re keeping her in an unlit, air-conditioned room.’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind joining her right now – it’s hot here in the office,’ she said.

  ‘Same here,’ I said. ‘Think I’ll take a cool shower. Have a nice weekend, Muriel.’

  Only as I put down the phone did I realise we hadn’t discussed the remains in the other coffin and what the statue’s connection with them might be. And, as I thought more about it, I wondered if we should have removed and handled the carving before establishing exactly what was in the larger of the two containers. What if the statue was hollow, as was likely, and contained something organic, which was not beyond the bounds of possibility? What if it was a kind of sarcophagus? Could that explain why Ben Adelola was afraid of it?

  But Adelola had no way of knowing what it was, so that didn’t add up. It’s just your imagination going into overdrive again, Illaun.