‘Uh…OK. And when are you heading off?’
‘I came back here to pack. Gallagher’s arranged for a car to pick me up and bring me back to the hospital in about twenty minutes. Then it’s on to Dublin for an overnight in the Radisson and a quick tour of the sights before I leave tomorrow.’
‘Why are you going back to the hospital?’
‘I’m calling in to see Cora Gavin. I think we got off on the wrong foot somehow, so I’d like to leave on a happier note.’
And for God’s sake don’t go in smelling of drink.
‘Keep in touch, Peter,’ I said.
We said goodbye. I put my fingers to my lips. I still had the sensation of our parting kiss on them from the night before.
It had been meant to be just a goodbye hug on the doorstep. But the crackle of electricity that coursed through us both was practically visible. Groot closed over the door with his foot. ‘For the first – and last – time,’ he said, and kissed me full on the mouth.
In that moment I was aware of nothing but the passion flowing between us. When we moved apart, it was like being unplugged from the national grid. I was still trembling as his taxi turned out of the drive. Even now my body was having tiny aftershocks. It was as if I’d been briefly exposed to an energy source from which I’d previously been insulated. And I didn’t feel guilty. It had been one of those rare encounters with an elemental force – a giant wave, a volcanic eruption: a once-in-a-lifetime thing.
I showered quickly, put on jeans and a sweater and ate some cereal standing up in the kitchen. Then I dropped into the office and explained where I was going to Peggy. While she printed me out a set of photographs of the statue, I rang the nursing home. The bizarre dream had put me in trepidation about what I might hear, but as it turned out my father was still holding on.
When I got to the cemetery there was no car or taxi in sight. I put on a red fleece I kept in the back of the 4x4 and walked up the short laneway to the closed gate. There was a stiff breeze, the sky was sunless, the landscape drained of colour. I climbed over the stone stile beside the gate and walked along a narrow path that ran parallel to the wall behind which Fran and I had been painting on a Saturday that seemed ages ago. Below the wall, where the meadow ran down steeply to the river, the long grass was undulating silkily in the wind that creased and ruffled the surface of the water. To my right, a line of dark yew trees sawed and creaked. Behind them crouched the skeleton of the cathedral, its grey bones flecked with white lichen, crimson valerian riming the cavities and cracks like dried blood.
I left the path and, skirting grave-slabs, tilted crosses and unmarked hummocks, made my way across to the roofless nave. I entered through a large breach in the wall and saw Ross Johnston half-sitting on the low ledge of a niche on the far side, the ends of his black coat flapping against his legs. A black leather suitcase stood upright on the gravel beside him.
He looked up from the book he was reading and rose to shake hands. He seemed far less intimidating than on the first occasion we’d met, frail even, his hooded eyes red-rimmed and watery, the lizard skin sagging.
He indicated I should join him on the ledge. ‘If you don’t mind sitting here, Miss Bowe. There’s some shelter from the breeze. We have some business to discuss, I believe.’
‘You’re leaving shortly,’ I said.
‘That very much depends on the outcome of the conversation we’re about to have.’
‘Oh? What do you mean?’
He unzipped a slim leather briefcase that was beside him on the ledge, put the book into it and drew out a single sheet of paper. His fingers were like yellow talons. The page fluttered and flapped as he drew it out.
‘On this piece of paper I have written the precise location of the pièce de resistance of the treasure hoard associated with the shrine of Our Lady of Castleboyne. Depending on how we proceed, I may be willing to share this information with you. I need to hear how much you know already, and to understand what exactly it was you found in the Magdalene graveyard. Did you bring the photographs?’
I handed him a stiff A4 brown envelope. ‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘why did you go to the rector to start making your inquiries?’
‘A simple mistake. Both churches are called St Patrick’s, aren’t they? I assumed my brother had been visiting the Protestant church, so I went there first, last Saturday. I bumped into the rector as I was wandering about and we got talking. He put me right on the window, but he said there was material about the shrine in their archive if I wanted to see it. He had just been looking it up himself, he said.’
He extracted the print-outs from the envelope, and as he began to scrutinise them a puzzled look came over his face.
‘It’s a Shrine Madonna,’ I said, and explained a little more about it.
‘You’re something of an expert on medieval sculpture, then?’ he said.
‘Not an expert. I did a thesis on it – or rather on its widespread destruction in the sixteenth century.’
‘Yes, what a dreadful period. People forced to abandon the pious imagery and religious practices they had known and loved for hundreds of years. As though one form of the faith were better than another. To my mind, either it’s all valid, or it’s all nonsense.’
I wasn’t sure I fully understood him. ‘Are you a Roman Catholic?’
‘No. I’m an Anglican who thinks it went too far back then – when Thomas Cromwell and his mullahs gained control, I mean.’
‘Er…yes…’ I wasn’t sure what to say.
‘Never mind. May I keep these?’
‘They’re for you,’ I said.
‘Thank you. I’ve had quite an amount of religious art pass through my hands over the years, but nothing like this,’ he said, slipping the photos back into the envelope.
‘So tell me what you found in the church archive,’ I said.
‘Among various odds and ends was a letter from a Miss Katherine Duignan sent in 1900 to the rector of Castleboyne, a Reverend Aylmer. She referred to the shrine of Our Lady and explained that she was the hereditary steward of its “chief treasure”, which, as well as a reliquary in the form of a statue, had been hidden away in the fourteenth century as directed by Joan, Countess of March—What is it, my dear?’ He had caught me smiling.
‘I thought you were a descendant of Joan’s.’
He looked embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry for the subterfuge. It was necessary because—’
I put up my hands to stop him. ‘I know why. Please go on.’
‘Since there had been only one Christian faith at that time, Miss Duignan thought it only right that the rector and her “separated brethren”, as she referred to the Church of Ireland community, should know that she was leaving certain information regarding the whereabouts of both objects. To this end, she had provided for the erection of a window dedicated to Our Lady of Castleboyne in the new Roman Catholic church. “Gazing therein,” she said, the rector’s parishioners might find the truth. She was, of course, quite deliberately implying that they should return to the old faith, including devotion to Mary. But at the time there was no ecumenical activity between the Churches – the church building of each was essentially out of bounds to members of the other faith – so she was setting a difficult challenge in more ways than one. Aylmer simply wrote the words “religious mania” across the letter, and presumably didn’t reply. But, fortunately for me, he filed it nonetheless.’
‘And I take it you found what she had encoded in the window.’
‘Yes. The symbols pointing to the Magdalene graveyard…and to this one.’ Johnston made a gesture taking in the nave.
Although I had visited this place more times than I could recall, I now became acutely aware of the numerous grave-markers within its confines, on the ground and in the ruined walls. ‘My guess was that she had come up with the symbols herself,’ I said.
‘You could be right. Because she included another little conundrum in her letter. How’s your Latin?’
‘Not bad, actu
ally.’
‘What do you make of this?’ He turned the sheet of paper for me to read.
CUM SANCTISSIMIS IN MEDIO CHORI
‘It looks like a description of where she was to be buried,’ I said. ‘But I would have expected it to read “ad sanctos” rather than “cum sanctissimis”.’
‘Why?’
‘“Ad sanctos” means “near the saints” – it means burying someone close to where the church’s relic or relics were kept, which would usually be in or under the altar.’ I cast my eyes along the nave towards the three-windowed east gable, one of the few parts of the church that still reached almost to its original height. There was a tomb above ground at about the position of the crossing, obscuring the stone slab marking the position of the high altar beyond it.
‘That’s what I understood too,’ said Johnston. ‘And, according to Ronald Davison, an attempt was made in the nineteenth century to dig around, possibly even under, the high altar up there.’
‘But nothing was found, as far as I know.’
‘So the rector said. Now, what do you understand by “in medio chori”?’
‘In the centre of the choir – the choir being where the choristers’ stalls were positioned, usually between the crossing and the high altar.’ I pointed. ‘Just past that tomb. It was another place chosen for burial by people of influence in the Middle Ages.’
‘Correct. So Miss Duignan signed off her letter by informing the Reverend Aylmer that she had been granted permission by the parish priest to be buried in the choir of SS Peter and Paul’s Cathedral, “cum sanctissimis”. What do you think she was saying? I’m not sure I’ve quite worked it out myself.’
‘“Cum sanctissimis” means “with the holiest”,’ I said. ‘Miss Duignan wanted to be buried not near, but with the holiest of relics – and I think I know exactly what she meant. The relic Robert de Fay brought back from Jerusalem became known over time as the “chief treasure” of the shrine. But then the arrival of the new reliquary caused an issue that had been under the surface to come to a head: an argument over whether it was the relic or the original image of Our Lady – an icon, I now believe – that was the effective agent in healing and working miracles. So the relic and the reliquary were hidden away for safety.’
A fire came into Johnston’s eyes that hadn’t been there before. ‘But, while the reliquary was deposited in the Maudlins vault, the relic itself remained in the care of the Duignan family all down the years.’
My heart rate soared. I knew where this was leading. I wanted to blurt it out, but instead I took a breath and gathered my thoughts. Johnston waited politely. He was allowing me the coup de grâce.
‘And Katherine, the last of the line, asked that she be buried “cum sanctissimis” – that the holy relic be put into the coffin with her corpse when she died. Her request was granted, and she went to the grave with the family secret – literally.’
‘You are clever. But what was this “holiest of relics”, do you think?’
‘I have a fair idea. Take out the photographs again, and I’ll explain.’
I selected one of the photographs of the opened statue. ‘The carving depicts the Virgin as a nursing mother, as you’ve seen. And when it’s opened, just there…’ I showed him the hollowed-out recess and the clasp. ‘I think that’s where the relic in its holder was meant to sit, allowing it, in a sense, to form part of her body. All of which suggests to me it was one of the most intimate of the relics associated with Our Lady – her milk.’
‘I have no reason to doubt you,’ said Johnston, giving me a sort of smile. ‘The question now is, what is to be done?’ He replaced the photographs in the envelope.
I knew what he meant. ‘Nothing,’ I said.
Johnston nodded. He was in agreement. The relic would remain undisturbed in the grave with Katherine Duignan.
A car horn sounding a triplet of honks in the distance made him look at his watch.
‘I must go, my dear,’ he said. ‘I booked a hackney cab to take me to the airport. There is one more thing I must ask of you. I understand that, as well as having Terence in your employ, you also had the brother of the unfortunate young woman working for you. Perhaps you’d be so good as to present him with this on my behalf.’ He took an envelope from his briefcase and handed it to me. ‘It’s not by way of compensation for the appalling things done to his sister, but simply the payment of a debt I feel certain is owed by my family.’ He cocked his head. ‘Did you hear something just then?’
I had. It could have been the noise of a dislodged stone skittering down from above or a dried twig snapping underfoot, but the wind prowling about the ruin had whisked it away before I could identify it.
I suggested we take a look at Miss Duignan’s grave together before he left. We passed by the tomb at the centre of what would have been the crossing, where the nave and the now non-existent transepts met. A short distance beyond, we came to a flat slab on the ground. It was similar to others in the vicinity, but it was the only one right in the centre. There was a short inscription on it, so shallowly carved that it had almost faded from sight.
PRAY FOR THE REPOSE OF THE SOUL OF KATHERINE DUIGNAN R.I.P.
Looking at her simple memorial in the windswept ruin, it was almost possible to imagine the dark polished wood of the choir stalls on either side, the glint and sparkle of the altarpiece a little further on, the jewelled glass in the three Gothic windows of the east end. But then the moment passed, and the stained-glass windows reverted to being empty sockets opening onto an ashen sky.
Chapter Thirty-Six
We were about to part when it occurred to me to ask Johnston why he had been talking to Darren Byrne.
‘I’m afraid he was one of the people stung by Terence.’
‘Stung? How?’
‘Terence borrowed money from him – told him he was on the verge of finding an artefact worth a lot of money. I knew it was a typical Terence scam, and I—’
‘Hold on a second,’ I interjected. ‘Did Byrne tell you when or how he came into contact with your brother in the first place?’
‘He didn’t need to. I was all too familiar with the pattern. But he did tell me that he visited Terence in the hospital on Friday afternoon, and it seems my brother told him there might be something valuable in the statue found in the graveyard. Byrne asked me if that was likely and I said I didn’t think so. He seemed relieved, somehow.’
Because he’d failed to break into the Heritage Centre the previous night.
‘How did he know you were related to Terry?’
‘Via the same hotel receptionist who had no problem informing me of Groot’s whereabouts. I had to use a credit card with my own name on it to make the booking. I think she’s one of Byrne’s local sources for stories. I explained to Byrne that I was wary of announcing my connection with Terence anywhere he’d been living for a while – that it had cost me dear on previous occasions.’
‘And was that it, was that all you talked about?’
‘He asked what I’d been doing that day – it was Tuesday, I think. I said I’d been out here at Oldbridge cemetery. He asked why. I didn’t want him to know, so I said I’d been trying to find an ancestor’s grave. He pressed me for the name. I knew I couldn’t say it was a Mortimer, so I think I may have blurted out something like, “A distant relation, name of Duignan.” He seemed to lose interest after that.’
I made no comment. Johnston was anxious to go, so I said I wanted to take a stroll around the graveyard and we shook hands. It wasn’t a warm handshake – my fingers, like his, were chilled to the bone.
As soon as he’d gone I left the nave and took a look behind the wall where we had been sitting. A few fallen stones and storm-broken twigs were strewn about the gravel. Then I noticed a black smear on one of the gravel chips. I moved it aside with the toe of my shoe to reveal a cigarette filter recently crushed by someone’s foot.
I got into the car and, for the first time in a month or more, turned on the
heat after I’d started the engine. Someone had been close by when Johnston and I were talking. Had we also been observed standing at the grave? I shivered from a mixture of cold and disquiet and then locked all the doors from the inside. My instinct was to ring Finian. I switched on my mobile phone and a text message from Fran appeared on the screen. ‘Some news. Ring asap.’
When I rang her, she answered straight away. ‘Guess what, it’s a Bank Holiday weekend,’ she chortled.
‘That’s great, Fran. I hope you enjoy it.’
‘I fully intend to. Matt and I are going away together.’
Now, that was news. ‘Well, hey – that was fast.’
‘We just enjoy each other’s company. It’s a companionship thing.’
‘Oh, sure. Don’t tell me you aren’t packing new lingerie.’
‘That’s for me to know – for now. I’ll tell you everything in shameless detail when I get back.’
‘You’re not going to miss choir practice tonight, I trust.’
‘Well, hey, Matt’s just pulled up outside, so what can I do? Gotta go.’
I hadn’t seen Fran so happy in a long time. I hoped it would be for more than a weekend.
Her good humour had helped to dispel the unsettling sensation of being stalked. But her buoyant mood had also scuttled my enthusiasm for spending time with a man whose feelings towards me at present were as devoid of warmth as the grey afternoon.
Driving back into town, I got a call from Cora Gavin and pulled over to take it.
‘I had a visit from Peter Groot earlier,’ she said. ‘He came to apologise for his unprofessional behaviour. His excuse was that he was under a lot of pressure – which is true, I suppose, but then we all were.’
‘Sure.’ I wasn’t getting into a discussion with Cora about Groot.
‘But that’s not why I’m ringing you,’ she said, to my relief. ‘I hadn’t realised that Beauty Adelola’s real name was Latifah Hassan until Groot mentioned it today.’
‘Really?’ How was that possible? Then I remembered that Cora had been out of the room when Ben had admitted they’d been using false names.
The Lazarus Bell, an Irish Murder Mystery Page 28