I lay awake for some time after that. Boo – twice the size of your average domestic cat – was stretched out alongside me on top of the summer-weight duvet, and his higher temperature radiating through it was making an already over-warm night unbearable. I threw my side of the duvet over him and lay undressed on the bed, but I still found it impossible to sleep.
My mind kept circling around what Terry Johnston had said to Gayle on the night of his birthday, about having some ‘hot totty’ lined up. He had also used the word ‘Hottentot’, which I knew was an outdated term for an African desert race. Had Terry been signalling to Gayle that he had a date with a black woman – with Latifah Hassan? Whoever it was, she was apparently like the ‘Hottentot Venus’ – what did that mean? Maybe nothing. But it edged the evidence ever closer to Terry having had contact with the murdered woman at around the time she disappeared.
In his conversation with me on the way to the hospital, Terry had referred to spending all his money carousing with a woman – as well as which, it seemed he was chronically in debt. Ben Adelola and his sister had also argued about money. Was there a connection?
I tossed and turned, thinking I was getting no sleep, but the next time I checked the clock it was 5.20. My thoughts and dreams were intermingling.
Boo was gone and I was cold now, so I dragged the duvet over myself and fell asleep again. This time I had no dreams that I could recall, but three hours later I awoke wondering if Ross Mortimer had approached the parish priest with the same queries I had had about the window. Father Burke would probably have mentioned it if he had, but I was fairly sure that Miss Duignan’s association with the window was crucial – so what other avenue could Mortimer be pursuing?
As I showered, it struck me that, now the quarantine was lifted, the sculpture of the Virgin and Child could be put on show in the Heritage Centre. But before that, I wanted to work out where it might have come from and, more immediately, to discover what it contained. Castleboyne Library and Heritage Centre opened at ten. That meant I could have breakfast, check with the nursing home on how my father was, talk to my mother and, after I’d spoken with Peggy, make contact with the murder investigation team.
When Peggy arrived half an hour later, I went into the office and told her about the deterioration in my father’s condition. I had talked to my mother at the nursing home, where she was maintaining a vigil, and according to her there was little change. She was relieved to know that Richard was on his way and asked me to track down a copy of ‘June’ by Francis Ledwidge, a favourite poem of my father’s, and to bring it with me when I next went to visit. I said I’d fax it to her at the nursing home.
On her way in, Peggy had bought a copy of Ireland Today to show me its coverage of the latest developments, starting with the front page: ‘TOWN STRUCK BY MYSTERY DISEASE GETS ALL-CLEAR’. On page four there was a short piece on ‘GRISLY FIND IN LAP-DANCER CASE’.
Neither report was under Darren Byrne’s byline. Instead, there was a short piece of his buried well inside the paper.
MEDIC FLEES AFTER TAUNTS
Dr Hadi Abdulmalik, a doctor working at the hospital that has been at the centre of the disease outbreak in Castleboyne, abandoned his post yesterday after being subjected to racist taunts.
A spokesperson for the Health Service said that, while the behaviour of some elements in Castleboyne was to be deplored, a doctor’s primary responsibility was to his or her patients, and once adequate cover had been provided, Dr Abdulmalik would have been allowed to leave St Loman’s had he requested it.
It had the appearance of being even-handed, but it was a mean-minded piece. At every opportunity in this crisis, Byrne had written stories laced with racist innuendo. But his attempt to besmirch Abdulmalik’s reputation looked like the desperate act of the playground bully who, having run out of his usual victims, singles out an obviously undeserving target. The editor had evidently felt uncomfortable enough about it to distance it from the main coverage of events in Castleboyne, and he had probably toned it down too. The bully had been spotted in the act by the headmaster. Perhaps knowing this, and aware that events were unfolding that didn’t fit with his outrageous reports on the murder and the spreading of disease in the town, Byrne had homed in on me to try and get a story that would restore him in the estimation of his superiors.
I didn’t tell Peggy about my encounter with him. Time was pressing. I tried to get Gallagher on his mobile, but it was off and not on voicemail. Had he relocated to Navan, where the incident room was? Not that it mattered; I didn’t have a number, and anyway what I wanted to bring to the attention of the investigation was more Groot’s territory. I rang his hotel, but he wasn’t in his room. I rang the hospital, but he wasn’t there either.
I was at my desk, so I typed up a quick summary of what I could recall of Terry’s conversation with Gayle and printed it off.
‘I’ll be at the Heritage Centre,’ I said to Peggy. ‘I don’t want to be disturbed, so I’ll have my mobile off. If there’s any news about Dad, give Paula Egan a ring and she’ll get me.’
‘OK. I should mention that Dominic Usher was looking for you yesterday – I don’t think I passed on the message.’
‘What did he want?’
‘He said he had some news, and could you call in to the office sometime.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
I glanced around the lobby of the Dean Swift Hotel. There wasn’t a single person sitting there.
‘I’d say you’re relieved the quarantine’s over,’ I said, making conversation with the receptionist.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked dourly, in keeping with her grey, chalk-striped suit.
‘I want to leave something for Dr Peter Groot.’
‘Best thing is to leave it under his door. Room 105,’ she added in the same flat tone.
I got the impression that it was the best course of action for her, because it meant she wouldn’t have to put herself out in any way. I walked up the stairs to the first floor and had just started down the corridor when I saw Groot emerging from his room. He was in a white towelling robe and had a bottle of wine gripped by the neck. Sauvignon Blanc at 10.00 a.m. – had Peter Groot an even bigger drink problem than I thought?
I was about to call his name but checked myself. I didn’t want to embarrass him. As he shuffled down the corridor in hotel slippers, I slipped the envelope under his door, somewhat amused to see him pause outside another door and tap gingerly on it.
The door was opened to him.
OK, Peter, I said to myself. I guess you had to make the best of your time here. I could have left it at that, but curiosity got the better of me. On my way to the lift, I checked the room number. 118.
At reception, I was discreet. ‘I’m dropping in some invitations to a barbeque. One of the people I promised an invitation to is staying in room 118, but her name has slipped my mind, and obviously I’d like to write it on the envelope.’
‘Her name?’ said the receptionist with a look of contempt. ‘That’s Mr Mortimer’s room.’
I sat in the car across the street from the Heritage Centre. I was dazed. How stupid, stupid, stupid, to think that Groot was interested in you, Illaun. I’d been even more stupid to let that flattering idea affect the most important relationship in my life. And you weren’t even rejected in favour of another woman. That was even harder to take – the realisation that you’d never been at the races in the first place, hadn’t got the message, smelt the coffee, or whatever was the current expression. Even so, I couldn’t let Groot’s inclinations interfere with my regard for him. The fact that I didn’t really comprehend male homosexuality was neither here nor there. What I certainly couldn’t fathom was that he was attracted to Ross Mortimer.
That made me look at the situation from another angle. What else could they have been doing in the room together? Having an all-night drinking session? Playing poker? It didn’t matter. It meant that Groot was pally with Mortimer – and that had disturbing implications. Morti
mer was possibly implicated in an attempt to break into the Heritage Centre – a plan that had involved intimidating me.
I realised I was gripping the steering-wheel with both hands while at the same time resting my head against it. Sitting up straight, I caught my reflection in the rear-view mirror. There was a red mark in the centre of my forehead that stood out all the more because my face was white. How long had I been slumped there?
The best thing you can do now, Illaun, is get to work.
After letting myself into the Heritage Centre – I’d collected a key to the new lock from Paula – I set about examining the carving. I knew I had to be extremely careful about tampering with it unnecessarily. If it was a reliquary, then the first place to look was in the base of the statue – a common location for depositing relics. I ran my fingers across the smooth, painted wood of the plinth, searching for the join that would indicate a secret compartment. I rapped my knuckles on every part of its surface, listening for a change of pitch. Nothing – the base was solid throughout.
I was now faced with the prospect of disassembling the carving, but how? Without knowing its structure, I could easily damage it if I tried to prise it open. I stood back from the stage and stared at the statue. I ran my eyes up and down it, observing the T-shaped segmentation of the head and torso, my eyes returning to the woman’s inviting gaze, her cryptic smile. What was she hinting at?
I stepped up onto the stage, sketchpad clutched to my chest, and walked around her carefully. And for the first time I noticed a join running down along each of her sides, barely noticeable inside the flowing drapery of the scarlet cloak. This confirmed that the statue had a three-part structure: the most substantial section was the back, including the head, while the front from the neck down consisted of two smaller sections.
What didn’t make sense was that the gaps between these segments were visible when such care had been taken to disguise other joins. It could only mean they were not intended to be covered over. And that meant…
The ladybird cocked its wing-cases, extended its wings…
My heartbeat quickened. If what I was looking at turned out to be what I thought it was, then beside me on that little stage in Castleboyne Heritage Centre was one of the rarest works of art in the world.
I put down my sketchpad and tried to insert my forefinger into the space at the top of her gown where the lines of the T met, but it actually took my little finger to fit into it. I tried to prise open each of the panels in turn, but I couldn’t get any purchase on them, not even with my nail. They seemed to be flush up against solid wood behind them.
I found my purse in my bag and fished out a credit card. I slipped it in at the top of the gown and ran it slowly down the seam. At first I could only insert the card a couple of centimetres; then suddenly it found no resistance, and I had to pull it back out. Finally, at her belt buckle, I met resistance again and couldn’t move the card any further. I used more force but couldn’t budge whatever was blocking it. I removed the card, inserted it just under the buckle and dragged it upwards. It stopped in the same place; but when I applied pressure, something moved inside. The gap between the two panels widened enough to let me see they had been held closed by a wooden catch, a simple hook-and-eye device.
Taking a deep breath, I opened the panels fully. They came outwards at first like a set of heavy cabinet doors, and when they were parallel to each other I could see they were joined to the rear section of the sculpture on hinges. I pushed them back until they were spread out like a pair of wings. I’m sure my eyes never blinked as they watched what was literally unfolding in front of them.
Like the metamorphosis of chrysalis into butterfly, the statue had become a different entity. Onto the interior surface of both outer panels of what was now a triptych, numerous figures – men, women and children – had been painted in vibrant colours on a gilded background; the reds, blues, yellows, purples and golds were reminiscent of the iridescent palette found on a peacock butterfly’s wing. Both groups of people were facing inwards towards the larger central panel, which was in itself a masterpiece of medieval wood-carving.
The Virgin’s head and neck rested on another, somewhat slimmer, representation of her gilded upper body. The base of her neck didn’t overhang this interior version of her body because, as I realised now, the curved wood of the outer wings was so finely tapered that where they came together to form the top of her gown they fitted flat against the interior sculpture.
Starting at her sternum, there was a hollowed-out niche within the Virgin’s body, and nestling inside it was another complete group carving, about a third of the size of the outer statue. The main sculpture was that of a seated, grey-haired, long-bearded man in gilded drapery. Fixed to the top of one of the light-rays emanating from the back of his head was a small white dove in flight. God the Father’s hands were extended and bearing up the arms of a cross, on which hung his son, the crucified Christ.
This centrepiece group – the Trinity – was the focus of attention for all the figures standing and kneeling on the two side panels, and I saw from their staves, their crutches and the cockle-shell souvenirs on their hats and cloaks that they were pilgrims. And, moving back a little from the triptych, I also noticed that Our Lady’s gilded arms had been continued in high relief on the inside panels, ending in her spread-out, flesh-tinted hands – a gesture of inclusion and protection for all the pilgrims depicted below. It was Mary in her role as Mater Misericordiae, the Mother of Mercy, shepherding us ‘pilgrim souls on earth’ towards the Trinity.
This was the ‘primary view’; the back of the triptych now showed the Infant Jesus incongruously attached to one of the panels and thus was unsuitable for viewing. The open version was therefore intended to rest on an altar, facing front, but not as part of an altarpiece – it was the altarpiece. On certain occasions – when it was to be borne in procession on Marian feast days, for example – the wings would be closed.
I was looking at what in French was known as a Vierge Ouvrante, in German has a Schreinmadonna. Fewer than fifty of them have survived, and I was aware of only one other in the world that also featured Mary nursing her child, but that was a small piece made for private devotion. Most Shrine Madonnas are seated, which was one reason why I hadn’t suspected that this carving might be one of these rare works of religious art. They owe that rarity in part to their controversial symbolism, which made them a prime target for destruction by Reformation iconoclasts and also got them phased out by the Catholic Church. When closed, she is nursing the child; when opened, the child has become the crucified man. Our Lady’s body therefore provides its life-giving womb and breasts to the saviour of mankind, but also paradoxically sends him on the path to the cross: she is womb and tomb in one. And far more suspect, from a theological point of view, is that she is portrayed as the mother of the entire Trinity.
This, perhaps, explained why the native Irish had welcomed the statue. To a people who had shown a preference for goddesses in triple form in the past, the Shrine Madonna was bound to appeal: she was at once the human mother of Jesus, the goddess-like bearer of the Trinity and the protective mother of all humanity. The idea of celebrating Mary in so many aspects would have been in keeping with her place in Celtic devotion.
But that didn’t explain why, on the other hand, the colonists had been so outraged by the image at the time. The Reformation was two hundred years in the future. Was it possible they had been stirred up from outside?
And what of its function as a reliquary? There was no sign of a display case or glass vial – no receptacle of any kind.
Then I realised I was so much in awe, I hadn’t sketched or photographed the artefact in its new phase. I found my digital camera in the bag and frantically started taking shots. It was almost as if I feared it might fold itself away and never be seen this way again.
Then I heard Matt Gallagher talking to Paula Egan outside in the library. He came into the room a few seconds later. ‘Peggy told me you’d be—My
God, an exploding woman,’ he exclaimed.
‘Isn’t it amazing? It’s a Vierge Ouvrante,’ I said.
‘A what?’
‘At the risk of sounding crude, literally an “opening virgin”. Also known as a Shrine Madonna. But you haven’t seen it as it was found – watch…’ I closed each of the wings in turn.
‘It’s stunning, I’ll grant you that. But how did Byrne know it was an open-out thingamajig?’
‘He didn’t. He thought it contained a very valuable object – a jewelled relic-holder, probably. But I haven’t seen any place where the relic could have been installed.’
‘Hmm. I think I noticed something as you were closing it… Open it out again.’
Gallagher stepped up on the stage as I reopened the panels, then leaned over one of them and pointed inside. ‘In there,’ he said. Considerably taller than me, he was pointing to a spot hidden from my viewpoint behind the rays of light beaming from God the Father’s halo. I stepped up beside him and looked in.
Inset into the gilded wood above and behind the dove of the Holy Spirit – in the approximate position of Our Lady’s heart – was a circular cavity about the size and depth of a shoe-polish tin, and at its centre was a jewel-encrusted clasp in the form of a bell-shaped flower. If it was designed to hold whatever Robert de Fay had brought back from the Holy Land, then the relic was intended to be literally and metaphorically at the heart of the statue.
‘I think I’ve put it all together,’ I said, closing the panels. ‘Why the statue was hidden away. What I have to work out now is what the relic might have been and where it is now.’ I picked up my sketchpad and we started towards the door.
The Lazarus Bell, an Irish Murder Mystery Page 25