Think of the Virgin’s blue. Its task was to signal to the onlooker that they were in the presence of the deity, plus, and this was as important, that the patron who had commissioned it was very rich. Who could fail not to appreciate the deft synergy of religion and mammon?
Yet, there was more. With its pale shallows and deep intensities, blue was the colour of calm, which soothed the disordered spirit. To reflect on its use, and its meanings, was a good subject for a peaceful meditation over a coffee; it helped the backwash from the Clare episode to recede. It was then she remembered that the church where Nina had tripped over Leo, was only five minutes’ walk away.
Its classically inspired façade projected faded beauty. Countless feet had created depressions in the marble steps leading up to the huge, brass-studded doors, which, in the days they were in use, would have required several people to open them.
Inside was quiet and Lottie wandered contentedly, assaulted by the giddy, swoony scent from vases of narcissi that had been placed in the niches. She noted the twelve-sided cupula with gilded wood above the transept, the fresco of Christ riding into Jerusalem on his donkey on the south wall of the nave and the mosaic in front of the altar. Votive candles burned on stands at the entrances to the side-chapels, one of which was partially obscured by a pillar.
Churches’ interiors varied – of course they did – but they shared the same basic footprint. Lottie was not religious, but she had always appreciated the predictable and reassuring form.
She was inspecting the stone carving of St Anthony of Padua in the north aisle when a movement alerted her. A man, who had been hunched over in a pew close to the altar rail, got to his feet. Under an inexpensive, shiny-with-age linen jacket, every line of his torso expressed tension.
Putting out a hand to steady himself, he edged out of the pew and she recognised Gabriele Ricci, looking as though he could do with a dose of sun. Reluctant to trespass on a private moment, she backtracked towards the exit.
Her footsteps sounded on the flagstones and he looked round. Lottie gestured that she did not wish to disturb him, but he walked towards her.
‘I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ve just sent you a text. We can be in touch later.’
‘You didn’t.’ There was a pause. ‘Intrude, I mean.’ He pulled down a sleeve that had ridden up over his shirt. ‘This is a church.’ There was a hint of a smile. ‘A place where many end up.’ Lottie raised an eyebrow. ‘Ill, well, happy, guilty. They hope to find the mercy they crave. And if you’re a non-believer, you may ask for it anyway as an insurance policy.’ He looked over to the stoup of holy water. ‘Not that I do. Any more, that is. But the painting you brought in reminded me of the days when such consolations looked reachable.’
She wanted to ask him why, and how, he had arrived at that state of mind but a movement overhead made them look up. A bird had flown into the church and was beating a maddened flightpath around the cupula.
‘I’m afraid this sometimes happens. It doesn’t end well.’
She watched the frantic bird. ‘I can’t bear it for him,’ she said.
‘We have to. And so must it.’
The stoicism chimed better with Lottie than the hunched figure in the pew of moments earlier.
Nevertheless, she sensed he was upset. ‘I hope nothing has happened?’ She was close enough to hear his intake of breath. ‘I don’t mean to pry.’
‘Nothing that can’t be dealt with.’
She cast around for diversion. ‘As you say, for some, belief must be crucial.’
She was sure she saw him wince.
Lottie thought about the ways she coped. This too will pass. As a nostrum, it worked for her but it was simple and she hesitated to offer it up.
He was looking at Lottie and she realised he was registering her properly for the first time. Her face, her long hair, the plain gold band on her finger, her full cotton skirt and white T-shirt.
‘The English are good at not asking the questions they would like to ask,’ he said. ‘They call it discretion and it is sometimes laughed at. But, at this moment, I’m grateful for this trait.’
Lottie was horribly embarrassed but relieved. Above them the bird dashed itself against a window, its beak cracking against the pane. ‘I wouldn’t dream of prying. Anyway, I must go.’ She slotted the strap of her bag over her shoulder. ‘I look forward to our next meeting.’
He breathed in sharply. ‘I’ve done some research into Pucelle fils. It will be interesting to talk about him.’
‘I’ve done some research too. Are you any closer to a decision on the painting?’
‘There are several possibilities.’ He ticked off the points on his white fingers. ‘It could be genuine. Or a copy by a junior in his workshop. Or a copy by a later master. Or,’ he bent back his forefinger with a savagery that made her wince, ‘a modern forgery. Someone who loved his work and understood him.’
‘And …?’
‘We’re still conducting the tests.’
She had barely sat down in her office at the Espatriati when her phone rang. ‘Signora Archer?’
It was Gabriele Ricci. Given she had just seen him in the church, she was surprised. ‘Do call me Lottie,’ she said.
‘Then, I’m Gabriele.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I should have mentioned … Pucelle fils was known to be in Rome a few years before he died. Also,’ there was a marked hesitation, ‘I’ve identified the hill in the painting.’
‘Where? Not Rome, surely?’
‘Forty kilometres or so north. At Palacrino. A hillside town. You can match the silhouette in the painting against it.’
Excitement stirred. ‘Pucelle fils died there.’
‘There’s an area below the town that is famous for wild narcissi in the spring. Pucelle fils was commissioned by the duchess to paint a book of hours. I’ve looked up the contract. There is a particular instruction to include the wildflowers of the area.’
‘And did he?’
‘We don’t know for sure. The duchess had herself walled up a few years later and died of voluntary starvation.’
‘She threw her life away?’
‘Women’s bodies were considered prime targets for the devil to infiltrate,’ said Gabriele. ‘They were at the mercy of their flesh and unstoppable desires, and their bodies were considered corrupt and wicked. This was probably the only way that the duchess felt she could purify herself.’ He sounded resigned. ‘It was unusual but not so unusual. It would have been understood at the time.’
Lottie digested this. The duchess would not have viewed her actions as terrible and against nature but as a glorious culmination of faith. ‘I hope she achieved what she wished,’ she said. ‘Is there any more news?’
Her excitement and interest must have danced down the phone and he moved to damp it down. ‘I’ve learned that, in this business, it’s best to anticipate disappointment.’
‘Where’s the painting?’
‘Being assessed at the Centre for the Study of Preservation and Restoration. My contact is on the case.’
‘Excellent.’
‘One step at a time, Lottie,’ he said in English. ‘Is that how you would say?’
He had let her in. ‘Excellent idiom, Gabriele, and I love the accent.’ She heard him chuckle and confessed, ‘I had my worries about it, but it would be ace if The Annunciation is genuine.’
‘Thank you.’ There was a marked pause. ‘You know … you should visit Palacrino.’
Lottie put down the phone, reflecting on ideas whose potency was so strong that to wall yourself up and starve to death represented a triumph.
Life expectancy was cruelly short in the medieval world. Wouldn’t that have sharpened the will to live? Or, as she had sometimes speculated, did its brutalities, and rudimentary medicine, make it so uncomfortable that someone might consider it easier to die?
Lottie worked until 12.15, when she brushed her hair and slicked gloss over her lips.
The door opened and the director, Valer
io Gianni, advanced through it with a companion.
He was all emollience – at which he excelled. He enquired if Lottie was settling in and then made for the door. ‘I will leave you to your meeting with my good friend Signor Antonio here.’
Lottie noticed the tiny emphasis on ‘my good friend’.
Having shaken hands, they sat down on either side of the desk. Lottie offered him a glass of water, which he declined.
Early seventies, she would judge, in a plain black suit with a small badge in the buttonhole, well-cut salt-and-pepper hair and thick-lensed glasses in black frames, his weary air suggested hard-edged irony had been incised into his spirit and he was a man who had seen much and had been disappointed. But for a heavily nicotined right forefinger, she could have taken him for a priest.
‘Forgive me for barging in, Signora.’
‘You’re not,’ Lottie replied. ‘You had an appointment. But I confess I’m at a loss to know … why?’
‘Of course. My name is Giuseppe Antonio and I work in the Vatican. Valerio informs me you are new to Rome,’ the weariness lifted for a moment and in its place was sharp appraisal, ‘but you’ve chosen a time when the city is at its best. Isn’t it curious how cities often feel things before they happen? Summer is coming and Rome knows it.’
She thought of how soft the shadows were growing, the warm stones, the sun turning more golden by the day. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘It’s a melange city,’ he said, and she suspected it was a theme he often trotted out. ‘Bits and pieces spliced together from a jumble of civilisations. Romans thrive on ruins. Those left by the Roman Empire, after the Visigoths and Ostrogoths had done their worst and, yes, after the Nazis. Cities survive what terrible human beings do to them.’
The ennui was convincing. Intuition, however, told Lottie that it was being directed by a steely sophistication and an agenda was being pursued.
‘I came from a poor background, where there was much privation, to work in the Vatican, and I ended up with a very good career.’
It was a clever sketch of his trajectory, which was intended to not tell her that much, but she caught the will and ambition, coupled with a hint of self-congratulation.
‘Signor Antonio, I am delighted to make your acquaintance, but would you think me rude if I ask why you are here?’
His gaze rested on the boxes stacked on the bench.
‘Of course you must ask. I expect it.’ He adjusted his glasses and she glimpsed the operator used to wielding authority. ‘I believe that you have been making enquiries about a painting.’
‘I’m not in a position to comment. Our investigations are always confidential.’ She glanced sharply at him. ‘Where have you got this information? Surely not Gabriele Ricci?’
‘As you will no doubt learn, in this city, things do not remain secret for long.’
‘Clearly.’
An eyebrow shot up at Lottie’s tone. ‘You must remember that Vatican officials work through hundreds of documents a day.’
Before she came to Rome, Lottie checked up on the Vatican City, which was a shorthand term for the central administrative apparatus of the Roman Catholic Church. Some eight hundred people lived in the square mile of the Vatican City itself, and more than two thousand – mostly men – were employed by it.
Clearly, they would be of all sorts and with differing ambitions. Some driven by faith. Some less so … rather as she suspected the man now sitting in front of her might be more interested in temporal rewards.
‘Day and night, if one were being pedantic.’ Signor Antonio was measured. ‘It never ceases. The pressure is constant. It’s the way the Vatican keeps abreast of events. Information about the painting was bound to come out.’
‘And …?’
‘But since you are concerned, a contact heard that the painting was being examined at the Centre for Preservation and Restoration and realised it matched a description of one lost from the collection in the Pinacoteca during the war. If that is correct, we would very much like it returned.’ He added, ‘After due diligence, of course.’
Was he, in fact, a dealer? There were documented instances of dealers donning different personae to track down a quarry. As a class of operators, they were a source of mirth, sneaky admiration and, if they made a successful heist, anger, but they were never trusted.
‘By due diligence you mean the correct documentation?’
He gestured as if to say: If that is required.
‘Signor Antonio, forgive me, but why are you asking me these questions, rather than the curator of the relevant department at the Pinacoteca whose business it must be?’
‘I did not mean to put your back up.’
‘It’s not a matter of putting my back up,’ she replied calmly. ‘It’s more a matter of assessing what the motives might be of a stranger who does not work here asking me about a confidential project.’
‘It may not belong where it was found, Signora Archer.’
‘Where it was found is not common knowledge and, again, confidential.’
A hint of steel slid into his voice. ‘It’s a painting crucial to our understanding of the artistic development of the period, and to our understanding of how the Blessed Virgin was seen and portrayed at a pivotal moment.’
‘I see that, but there are many Annunciations of the period. You are surely not deprived of “understanding”.’
It’s a special moment in a life, Signora. As you might appreciate, its value can never be underplayed. Everyone recognises this crucial moment whether they are blessed with children or not.’
Lottie got to her feet. ‘Signor Antonio, no doubt the position will be clearer in a few days.’
He had no option but to follow suit. ‘Nothing is more important than the Church and the meaning of its message. Keeping it intact is a struggle in today’s world. It is our first duty.’ There was a touch of scorn. ‘The world is troubled and there is always danger of disorder. The Church’s role must be that of a peacekeeper and to provide the moral leadership that, in turn, will influence the political leadership. I am totally committed to that.’
This was to veer off the point – which might have been the point?
Suddenly, he switched tack. ‘I expect to hear from you.’
‘If the painting is authenticated and if you produce the documentation to prove that the painting belonged to the Vatican collection.’
‘They can be produced.’ He did not specify which papers.
‘Nothing can be decided without establishing provenance,’ said Lottie, ‘as you will be aware.’
‘Proof of provenance will be produced at the correct moment, Signora Archer.’
He held out a largish hand with well-tended nails and its nicotine stain. After a second or two, Lottie took it.
‘We’re interested in what happened to it after it went missing and where it was discovered. It will add enormously to the Holy Father’s collection if it is returned.’ He released her and stepped away. ‘And any other material that came with it? Which we would need to assess.’
‘Signor Antonio, if we can help, we will do so.’ She conducted him to the door. ‘Just to be sure, what is the name of the painter?’
He raised an admonishing finger. ‘The painter of The Annunciation, of course.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
HE LEFT, LEAVING BEHIND QUESTIONS AND A DISTURBING aura.
Lottie flew over to the boxes containing the Lawrence papers.
Number: 001768/9. Papers, date to be determined–1978, of Nina Maria Lawrence, 1940–78. Condition: damp damage and decay. Material exposed to natural light.
It had taken her some years to settle in her mind the true significance of the archival process and she was certain of only one thing: the documents corroborated an early lesson of how little we share with others. The revelations of the solitary souls buffeted by events could be upsetting. On the other hand, the organization demanded by the work suited the part of Lottie that craved the safe and sanitised,
order and neatness.
She had been well trained in the system of document management, among other things, devised to track the location of a document at any time, and did not allow herself any short cuts. The protocol was immovable and no one aspect of the process should be shirked.
Throughout her lunch hour and much of the afternoon, she worked steadily, entering the details. Precise and efficient.
The first tranche contained a bundle of receipts and newspaper articles stuck together by damp and mould. Deploying the scalpel and tweezers, she managed to tease them apart, which took a couple of hours.
She turned to a second bundle that was made up of press cuttings.
Top of the pile was a Deaths notice in the L’Eco di Roma and dated 1 December 1978:
Lawrence, Nina Maria. Died 15 October 1978.
An appeal followed:
She has no known family or contacts. If anyone is aware of their whereabouts, please contact the authorities below.
The notice concluded with details of her forthcoming interment at the Protestant Cemetery on 9 December at 12.30.
It was warm in the office and Lottie switched the ceiling fan on to low. Its whomp-whomp cut through the still air.
Nina had been young to die. Lottie hoped that her own coffin would be strewn with flowers and surrounded by friends anxious to say their farewells and to press a hand down on its surface with love and affection. It had not been like that for Nina Lawrence – no known family or contacts – and it was more likely she had been stowed, solitary and cold, in a mortuary.
Then who had placed the notice in the paper and why did Nina Lawrence have to wait two months after her death before she was buried?
Lottie reapplied herself to the cuttings. Next up was taken from an English news-sheet. Its headline screamed: ‘A TERRIBLE MURDER’.
A thirty-eight-year-old Englishwoman has been found by the Tiber with her throat cut …
Truly shocked, and with all thoughts of The Annunciation driven from her mind, Lottie’s own throat constricted.
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