I said she was most welcome, and we went together down the corridor to the exhibition area.
‘It’s cold in here, isn’t it?’ she said as we entered the room.
‘Yes. The air conditioning is turned right down. She was in a chilly place for a long time.’ I switched on the lights.
‘Oh, it’s stunning,’ said Paula as we crossed the room. About three metres from the stage, she stopped and did a double-take. ‘Wow – she’s breastfeeding.’
Glancing sideways at Paula, I noticed that she was pregnant. ‘It’s called a Maria Lactans,’ I said. ‘Are you surprised?’
Paula nodded. ‘In one way, yes. But I suppose nursing mothers were a common sight in Europe when this was made, so there was probably nothing remarkable about it.’
‘True. And, as well as that, in Christian writings the idea that Mary had suckled Jesus was used as a reminder of his humanity. And it was a metaphor for the spiritual nourishment she was capable of feeding to all of us.’
‘Not something you could dispense from a bottle, I guess,’ Paula said with a giggle and a swing of her ponytail. ‘Not that they had bottles anyway. I suppose wet-nurses were the human equivalent.’
‘You’re right. It was such a familiar practice that some female mystics reported suckling Jesus in their visions.’
‘Ah, hold on. That sounds a bit dodgy,’ she said, as we moved to the foot of the stage.
‘I guess we’re conditioned by our media to think of breasts as being almost exclusively sexual, so the idea of wet-nursing your way to a spiritual high does seem almost perverse. But the average medieval man or woman had a much more holistic view of what the female breast signified. It could be maternal, sexual and spiritual, all at the same time.’
‘I think I know what you mean.’ Paula looked down, marvelling at the increased size of her breasts, and I knew that in the past months she must have become conscious of them in an entirely different way. She looked the sculpture up and down admiringly. ‘Even apart from the breastfeeding, there’s no doubt she has a woman’s body; look at her tummy.’
Paula was right again. The sweep of her gown where it emerged from under her high-set belt emphasised her shape. Further evidence that she had been carved as an anatomically real woman wearing clothes.
We stepped up on the stage and moved around the statue.
‘I love her cloak,’ said Paula. ‘Don’t think I’ve ever seen her with a red one before.’
‘Yes. It’s a colour more often used for her gown.’
‘So why a red cloak this time?’
‘I’m not sure yet. But when possible she was painted with the most expensive pigments available. The bright blue we associate with Mary came from ultramarine, and eventually that became her standard colour in Italy and beyond. But red was often favoured in northern Europe, because kermes was a valuable pigment too.’
‘So does it mean the statue was made there?’
‘Possibly. But it doesn’t prove it.’
There was a cough at the door. One of Paula’s male colleagues beckoned to her. ‘Someone here for you – about a book you ordered in for her?’ Paula excused herself and went back into the library.
I walked around the statue again and stood at an angle that allowed me to best observe how the Madonna presenting her breast to the Infant had been sculpted. Even though I had said to Paula that medieval earthiness accounted to some extent for the portrayal of Mary nursing her baby, there was still a certain amount of restraint and respect practised when representing her exposed breast. In theory, the reason for representing Christ, Mary and the saints was not to draw attention to the image itself but to lead the mind and heart to the contemplation of higher things; so depicting Mary’s partial nudity was surrounded by conventions aimed at reducing any untoward erotic signals that might distract the viewer.
The dilemma was sometimes solved by having the Infant suckling in a way that hid the breast entirely. This was certainly not the case here. Another device was to render the exposed breast in an unnatural-looking, stylised way: in paintings, flat and one-dimensional, in sculpture as an appendage that seemed to have been stuck onto the figure as an afterthought. But in this carving her exposed breast had been naturalistically rendered, including a hint of the areola at the child’s mouth. And it was obvious that a second milk-filled breast was swelling her dress on the other side. When the Holy Mother was depicted like this -– with ample, realistic breasts – the convention was to give her a hieratic, distant expression, her otherworldliness counterbalancing her evident fleshiness. But this Madonna’s eyes were not gazing into the distance, they were looking directly at the viewer. Her red-lipped mouth was caught in a half-smile, her head bent almost flirtatiously to one side. It was a confusing expression, as if the onlooker was being invited to gaze on her while simultaneously being chastised for doing so.
But even as I studied her face, my eyes kept being drawn to the gap running from the top of her gown to the point of the full-length girdle hanging from her belt. I could see now it was the leg of a curving, T-shaped join, the horizontal line of which ran along the collar of the dress. She seemed to be constructed of at least three sections – two making up most of her body, the third consisting of her neck and head. Did that mean she could be disassembled, and was that the reason why the gaps had been left? Was it a container of some kind? It had probably been hollow to begin with – a weight-reducing feature that would also have made it easier to carry in procession. And yet Brian Morley had said it took three of them to cart it inside.
My mobile rang. It was Finian, sounding a bit frantic. ‘I hate to do this to you, but I could do with a helping hand. That South African police pathologist Sherry brought over arrived at Brookfield this morning, to re-examine the area where the woman’s body had been found. Dad ran into him and invited him to the house to meet me, but I have to bring these writers on a tour of the garden. Could you just look after him for an hour or so, until I get rid of this lot?’
I said sure. I locked up and went back into the library to say goodbye to Paula. Coming along one of the aisles formed by the bookshelves, I noticed a long pair of crossed, and blotchy, bare legs sticking out from behind the shelves at the far end, a sandal nonchalantly dangling from one foot. I walked past quietly and saw Daisy McKeever, sitting on a low stool and flipping through a book. She was in her white school blouse and a blue skirt hitched well above her knees. The sign over the shelves beside her said ‘WOMEN’S HEALTH’. I glanced down at what she was reading. It was a book on human reproduction.
My mouth went dry as I hurried across to another aisle. I paused there and pretended I was reading the titles of the books on the shelf. What should I do? Confront her – meddle in something that, strictly speaking, wasn’t my business? But her mother was my best friend – what would she have me do? Go and tell her directly, probably. Doing nothing was the course that appealed to me most just then. Illaun, your own curiosity got you into this – now sort it out.
Daisy became aware that someone was there and looked in my direction.
‘Oh, hello, Daisy,’ I said cheerfully from the other aisle, as if I had just come in that way.
Daisy clapped the book closed and stood up, blushing.
‘No school today?’
‘I’m on my lunch break.’
I’d lost track of the time. Perhaps because there were no ‘feed me’ signals coming from my stomach.
‘Hey, have you seen the statue we found in the Maudlins graveyard?’
‘No,’ she said, shoving the book back onto a shelf.
‘Come and take a look,’ I said. ‘It’s very impressive.’ I wasn’t sure what I was doing, but it would give me time to think.
Daisy followed me out reluctantly, her head bowed.
I rabbited on about medieval wood-carving while Daisy walked wordlessly around the statue. She stood looking up at the Virgin’s face for a few moments, then went to the back, extending her hand and gently tracing her fingers a
cross the red mantle. It zapped me like an electric shock.
Touching it! Why hadn’t I done the same? Professional etiquette, of course, even though I’d ignored that in the past when it suited me. But, six months previously, one of my staff – sadly, now an ex-employee – had made a valid point. Archaeologists who dig up artefacts rarely have an opportunity to get up close and personal with them for long. Museum curators, even museum visitors, probably get more time alone with the objects that archaeologists have discovered in the field. Of course, if we need to examine an artefact for research purposes, we can gain access to it; but that’s not the same as having precious moments alone with an important find in the early hours after its discovery.
‘Her cloak’s cool,’ said Daisy.
‘Yes, isn’t it? Same shade of red as your boyfriend’s bike, too.’ It just came out. One second there was nothing, next thing I was talking about Darren Byrne and his damn motorbike.
Daisy didn’t respond.
‘Did you have a nice time on Saturday?’ I asked, sounding increasingly like my Aunt Betty.
‘We only went out for an hour. My legs were getting destroyed with stones flying up. And anyway, Darren had to go to Dublin for the afternoon to work in the office.’
‘That’s odd,’ I said. ‘I saw him out at Oldbridge at four o’clock.’
‘Four? You’re sure?’ Daisy was blushing again.
‘Uh-huh.’ If I was getting Byrne into hot water, I wasn’t one bit remorseful.
‘Listen, I gotta go,’ said Daisy. ‘Thanks for showing me the statue.’
‘Glad I could.’
Daisy paused at the door and looked back at the carving. ‘Wish I could bring it with me to my friend Yaz’s house.’
‘Why so?’
‘She’s six months pregnant. And I’ve been at her that she has to breastfeed the baby, but she’s not into it. So I’ve been reading up some stuff in a book Paula recommended, on why it’s good for the mother and the baby. But can you imagine if I came in the door with a breastfeeding statue of Mary? Wow – she’d freak completely!’
I laughed, as much at myself for allowing my imagination to run away with me as at the idea of Daisy hawking the statue about as an ad for breast-feeding.
Chapter Fifteen
‘God, I’m glad you’ve come,’ Finian said when I arrived in the hall at Brookfield. ‘My father’s left him sitting on the patio. His name’s Peter Groot. I gave him one of your Black Death handouts to pass the time.’ He ducked back inside the drawing room, where he was treating the writers to a glass of wine.
I gave myself a quick once-over in the hall mirror. I was happy that I’d picked out the cream linen suit to wear to the hospital. A couple of days of semi-starvation had done the trick in the hip department.
I hadn’t formed any expectations of the former police pathologist, but if asked I would have vaguely imagined Richard Attenborough in Jurassic Park. The blond, blue-eyed god in the stick-of-rock-striped shirt and tailored blue knee-length shorts, waving at me from the patio, looked as if he had surfed all the way from Cape Town on a sunlit wave.
‘Hi there.’ He stood up and gave me a strong, business like handshake. ‘It’s Eileen, am I right?’
‘Almost. Illaun. And you’re…Peter?’ Even in my heeled sandals I just about came up to his chest.
‘Almost. Petr.’ The last two consonants squeezed out the second vowel, allowing him to roll the ‘r’. ‘You’re an archaeologist?’
‘Yes. And you’re a pathologist, I believe.’
‘That’s right. I’m known as the Cape Town Cadaver-Carver.’ He said it with a deadpan expression and for a moment I thought he was serious. Then I saw his mischievous smile.
We both sat down. There were some glasses on a tray on the table and an ice bucket on the ground between us. He had been petting Bess, who now reluctantly moved out from under my feet.
‘How did you know who I was?’
‘The old guy – Arthur – described you to me. You’re his prospective daughter-in-law, after all. And for once I’m not disappointed by someone else’s idea of an attractive woman.’
Charmer? Smarmer? For the moment his physical appearance made me give him the benefit of the doubt. Illaun, how could you?
Groot retrieved the bottle from the bucket. ‘Seems he’s gone for a snooze. Finian was about to join me, but he had to meet some people…’ The top page of the document he had been reading flipped over in a flurry of air. ‘He gave me your handout to read – very interesting so far. Glass of wine?’
‘Thanks, I will. It didn’t take long for you to get here.’
Groot leaned across and took a glass from the tray. ‘I was at a loose end when I got the call from Malcolm Sherry, so I jumped on a plane straight away. And the great thing about flying from South Africa to this part of the world – no jet lag.’ He poured the wine and handed me the glass by the base of the stem. ‘Brought my own tipple. A nice Sauvignon Blanc from one of my favourite vineyards.’
His accent transformed the word so that for a second I had no idea what he was talking about; then it clicked.
Groot raised his glass. ‘It’s my first time in Ireland, and if the other ladies here are anything like you, I may never go back home. Here’s to Celtic beauties!’
I’ve had compliments before – usually on my eyes, which are my best feature – but otherwise I’m small and dark, not quite model material. Again I wasn’t sure whether to think ‘Mmm’ or ‘Ugh’. I took a sip of the cut-grass-scented wine, and as I savoured it the thought occurred to me that Terry Johnston would never again enjoy what life has to offer.
‘So what’s a nice girl like you—’ Groot began to scrutinise my face. ‘Hey, you’re upset about something. Can I ask what it is?’ he said gently.
I hadn’t realised my feelings were so obvious. Or was he extremely observant?
‘Oh…’ I found myself sighing. ‘One of my site workers died this morning.’
‘Sorry to hear that. Close, were you?’
‘No, it’s not that. In fact I hardly knew him. The poor guy has no relatives we can contact, either. And his death wasn’t exactly…well, death isn’t pleasant at any time, but his was pretty ghastly.’
‘In what way?’
I described Terry’s symptoms and the rapid progress of his illness.
‘Sounds like a VH-if to me.’
‘VH if?’ I seemed to be having a problem tuning my ear to his speech.
‘Yes. Viral Haemorrhagic Fever – VHF. Marburg, Ebola, that kind of thing.’
A trickle of fear ran down my spine. ‘That’s what some researchers claim was the real cause of the Black Death. Could he have been infected by liquefied remains – coffin liquor, I mean?’
‘If that individual had been infected with VHF? It’s possible. Health workers trying to contain outbreaks of VHFs treat the bodies of the dead like unexploded bombs – the less contact, the better. We don’t have enough information yet on how long or in what circumstances they remain contagious. The hospital’s doing a post, I presume?’
‘A post?’
‘Post-mortem, an autopsy.’
‘I think so.’
‘Autopsies aren’t usually recommended in VHF cases, but it’s obviously not being treated as such.’
‘You could always attend the autopsy – share your expertise with them.’
Groot smiled. ‘That’s not why I’m here. Why so anxious for me to get involved?’
‘The coffin I’m talking about was unearthed in the graveyard you were reading about just now. I’m worried about what it might have contained.’ I told him about the finding of the coffins and the subsequent accident.
‘If someone asks, I’ll volunteer an opinion, but not otherwise,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘I’ve no intention of barging in where I may not be wanted, and I think Malcolm would prefer if I stayed out of it.’
‘Have you examined the woman’s remains yet?’
‘First thing this mo
rning at St Loman’s.’ He pronounced it ‘Scent Lemons’. I was getting the hang of it. ‘You were probably there at the time. I wish I’d known.’
‘And…?’
‘And…well, I’d have got to know you sooner then.’
This was becoming slightly irritating, like a wasp that you don’t want to swat but that keeps buzzing you. ‘I meant, and what did you find when you examined the body?’ I was deliberately sharp.
Groot’s smile faded. Then he looked at me suspiciously. ‘Are you privy to the details of the case so far?’
‘Yes. Malcolm’s been sharing the details with me and Finian.’ That was stretching it a bit, but I was curious.
‘Well. Malcolm may be right that the woman was cut up for her parts to be used in ritual magic, but I’m not entirely convinced. On the face of it: the body dumped in flowing water, the head and hands gone, breasts and genitalia cut off, the atlas bone missing – fairly standard things in muti killings. We can’t tell if the organs in the head were removed because we don’t have it. But there was pooling of blood in the body, indicating it had lain on its back for some hours after death. Which in turn tells me that her body wasn’t cut up while she was still alive, because she would have bled out with those injuries. And…that doesn’t make for the best muti. In fact, they would probably have drained her blood for use too, and that wasn’t done.’
‘It sounds like such a dreadful practice. Why do people do it?’
‘Muti is just a Zulu word for medicine, as practised by sangomas in South Africa. It’s based on the principle of using the energy of living things to achieve certain results. And that’s fine, as far as it goes. The problem is, human body parts are the most potent ingredients available, and sangomas do occasionally resort to them, especially to enhance someone’s prospects in life. Then you’re into a form of sympathetic magic – eyes for seeing into the future, genitals and breasts for sexual prowess or fertility, the tongue for enhanced powers of persuasion and so on.’
The Lazarus Bell, an Irish Murder Mystery Page 11