The Lost Relic

‘No, I mean it.’

‘Well, it’s sweet of you to say.’

They’d gone on chatting for a few moments. Brooke had noticed that Marshall was a little red in the face. Must be the champagne, she thought – until suddenly he pulled a serious frown, cleared his throat and interrupted their small talk by blurting out, ‘I really did mean it, you know. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again, a lot. In fact, I’ve been having trouble thinking about anything else the last few weeks. Or anyone else,’ he added meaningfully.

‘Marshall, are you drunk? You shouldn’t be talking that way.’

‘I married the wrong sister,’ he stammered. ‘I realise that now.’

‘You’ve had too much to drink. Let me make you a coffee.’

‘I’m not drunk,’ he’d protested, moving even closer and making her back away. ‘I think about you all the time. I can’t concentrate at work. I can’t sleep at night. I’m in love with you, Brooke.’

His earnestness was shocking. She’d been opening her mouth to yell at him to stop it and back off when the door had opened again and Phoebe had walked into the kitchen. Marshall wheeled abruptly away from Brooke and planted himself against the edge of the kitchen table, trying to act normal.

Phoebe didn’t appear to notice anything was wrong. ‘There you are,’ she’d said brightly. ‘I was wondering where the two of you had vanished off to.’

‘I just came in for a glass of water,’ Brooke explained, heart fluttering, holding up her glass as if somehow she needed to provide evidence. Why the hell did she feel she had to justify herself? She was furious with herself, and even angrier with Marshall for putting her in this situation. The fact that she’d hidden it perfectly only made her feel more absurdly complicit.

Exit Marshall, in a hurry, suddenly in urgent need to attend to the guests. Brooke had swallowed hard and spent a while catching up on things with her sister as though nothing had happened. Twenty minutes later, she’d made her excuses and gone home, upset and confused.

One morning a week after the party, Brooke had been driving to work when Phoebe had called her sounding emotional and asking if they could have coffee that day. They’d met at Richoux in Piccadilly, and taken a small table in the corner of the tearoom. Brooke had known right away that something was up. Her sister looked suddenly much older than her thirty-eight years, gaunt and strung out. Over far more than her usual share of cream scones, she’d come out with it:

‘Marshall’s having an affair.’

‘What?’

‘I’m sure of it.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I just do. He’s stopped paying me any attention. He comes home late. He’s irritable and restless.’

Jesus. Under the table, Brooke’s toes had been curling. ‘He has a stressful job, Phoebe. It could be work related. Problems at the office. It doesn’t have to mean—’

‘There’s more,’ Phoebe cut in. ‘He bought jewellery. I found a receipt in his pocket. Tiffany’s. Three grand. Who’s that for, eh?’

‘Maybe he wants to surprise you.’

‘A week after our anniversary? Christmas is miles away and my birthday’s not for another seven months. It isn’t for me, Brooke. I know it.’ Phoebe had burst into tears at that point. ‘I couldn’t bear it if he left me. I’d die.’

Brooke had done her best to reassure her sister that nothing was wrong. Everything would soon go back to normal.

She could have murdered Marshall.

Then, two nights after that, the first of the phone calls. ‘It’s me. Are you alone?’

‘Of course I’m alone. I live alone. It’s three in the morning, Marshall. Go to sleep.’

‘I can’t sleep.’

‘Good bye.’

Eleven, twelve, thirteen more times he’d tried to call that night, keeping her from sleep until dawn. The next evening had come the knock on the door that she’d been dreading. Marshall had looked wrecked there on the doorstep, demanding to know why she wouldn’t answer the phone. Worried he was going to make a scene, she’d let him come inside the flat.

Big mistake.

‘The way you talk to me. The way you look at me, the way you laugh when I tell a story. I know you like me. Admit it. You have feelings for me.’ She could smell the alcohol on his breath.

‘You’re crossing the line, Marshall,’ she shouted. ‘I’m not going to let you hurt Phoebe like this.’

‘Not going to let me? This is all your fault!’ Digging in his pocket, he came out with a small packet. ‘Look. Let’s not fight. I bought you a present.’

Brooke had stared in horror, knowing what it was. ‘I don’t want it.’

‘It’s from Tiffany.’

‘Give it to Phoebe. My sister. Your wife, remember?’

‘Phoebe and I are finished.’

‘Not according to her. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’

‘But—’

‘Listen to me, Marshall. Your behaviour with me is completely irrational. It’s clear you’re going through some kind of crisis, and I think you need to seek professional help. Now, I can give you some numbers to call—’

‘Yeah, I’m mad,’ he’d grunted. ‘Mad about you.’ And put out his hand to touch her cheek.

She flinched away. ‘Don’t. I think you should get out now.’

‘I can’t. I love you.’

‘That’s ridiculous, Marshall.’

‘Oh, right. You love him. The soldier.’

‘Ben. He’s not—’ But there was no point in correcting him. ‘Yes, I do.’

He flushed. ‘How can you be in any kind of proper relationship with someone who lives in another country? Now that’s ridiculous.’

‘That might not be for long, because I’m thinking of moving there to be with him full time. Not that it’s any of your bloody business.’

‘Has he asked you? Bet he hasn’t.’

‘Get out, Marshall!’

Finally, with threats and as much force as she could use without physically attacking him, she’d managed to get her brother-in-law out of the flat and chained the door in his face. He’d ranted and pleaded a while on the doorstep, then skulked back across the street to his turbocharged Bentley.

In the weeks since, Brooke had been feeling increasingly powerless and confused, angry, even guilty. On the pretext of wanting to spend more time together, she’d arranged to meet Phoebe several times in town for coffee, never at the house or at her own place. It made her feel better to be there for her sister, protecting and supporting her in her time of need; yet at the same time she was more and more miserable for hiding the truth.

Meanwhile, Marshall’s barrage went on. She was terrified even to check her emails and texts in case it would be him, and she avoided the phone almost all of the time. Once or twice it had been Ben calling her, wondering how she was and why she hadn’t been in touch. Her excuses had been thin, unconvincing at best. She’d kept conversation to a minimum, afraid that she might let something slip. Briefly, during one of her sleepless nights, she’d considered telling him the truth about what was going on with Marshall. But that had been an idea she’d very quickly dismissed.

Ben would be on the first flight to London to beat the crap out of him.

It wasn’t that Marshall didn’t have it coming – it was the ugly mess that would ensue. She could see it all. Assault charges. Police. Explanations. Ben in trouble. Phoebe devastated.

No chance.

And now, standing here on this beautiful warm sunny day surrounded by the flowers in her garden, Brooke felt completely walled in.

What am I going to do?

Chapter Ten

Once inside the elegant old house, Ben saw he’d entered a private art exhibition. The entrance foyer was filled with stands of posters, pamphlets and guides, and framed prints around the walls gave a taste of what lay inside. He felt very out of place in his jeans and denim shirt. Scanning the crowd he counted roughly thirty-five guests. Apart from one or two elderly couples, most of the people were in their mid-to-late thirties or older, many sporting a carefully-cultivated arty look. With the exception of one or two bohemian scruffs, everyone was very well dressed, and being Italians there was an unspoken war going on as to who could look the most chic. Probably the winner out of the whole bunch was the square-jawed guy in the Valentino blazer who’d clearly been dividing his time between working on his tan and studying old Robert Redford movies. Mr Dashing. Ben smiled to himself and shook his head.

After Gianni, the youngest person in the room was a sullen teenage girl with long curly blond hair, who was doing everything possible to distance herself from her parents and make it clear that she’d rather be anywhere but here.

‘Donatella Strada,’ the boy’s mother said warmly, keeping a tight hold of her son with her left hand while extending her right.

‘Ben Hope.’ He took her hand. It was slender and felt delicate in his. Donatella was small and petite, almost elfin. He liked the sharp look of intelligence in her eyes. She didn’t have that air of pretension that he could sense in many of the others.

‘You are English? But your Italian is excellent.’

‘Half Irish,’ he said. ‘I’ve travelled a bit, that’s all.’

‘Well, Signor Hope, I must thank you again. Are you living nearby?’

‘Just passing through,’ he said. ‘What is this place?’

‘The Academia Giordani,’ she said. ‘One of the most established and respected schools of fine art in the region. They’re celebrating the opening of the brand new exhibition wing, which has just been finished.’

‘The modern bit. I saw it from the road.’

She smiled. ‘Modern monstrosity, you wanted to say.’

‘No, modern is fine. So is old. I like all kinds of architecture.’

‘What about art, Signor Hope? Is it something you appreciate?’

‘Some. What little I know about it. Not sure I go for sheep in formaldehyde, or unmade beds and dirty underwear – or does that make me a philistine?’

Donatella seemed to approve of his taste. ‘Not in my book. You’ll be pleased to know there is nothing like that here. No gimmicks, no publicity stunts or con tricks. Just pure art. The owners have put together a wonderful collection of works from across the centuries, on loan from galleries all over the world.’

‘Hence the high security,’ Ben said. He’d already noticed the glassy eyes of the CCTV system watching from well-concealed vantage points around the room.

‘Oh, yes. Smile, you’re on camera. A state-of-the-art system, apparently. Not surprising that the galleries would insist on it, when you have hundreds of millions of euros hanging on your walls.’

‘So, do I take it you’re part of the art scene around here?’ Ben asked as he followed her through the crowd towards where the staff were checking invites and ushering guests through an arch leading to a glass walkway. He guessed it connected the old part of the building to the new wing.

‘My husband Fabio is. He’s one of the region’s top art and antiquities restorers. I just dabble in it, which is nice for me because I get to go to all the exhibitions with him.’

‘Is he here today?’

‘He’s supposed to be,’ she said. ‘But he phoned earlier to say he might not be able to get here. His company are helping to restore an old church outside Rome, and they ran into some kind of delay. He’ll be very disappointed if he can’t make it. And he’ll be sorry he didn’t get to thank you personally for what you did.’

‘I didn’t do that much,’ Ben said.

Donatella showed her ticket, explained to the woman at the desk that Ben was her guest, and they were ushered through the arched entrance to the glass corridor. At the end of it, they stepped into a bright, airy, ultramodern space that was the pristine new exhibition wing of the Academia Giordani. The floor was gleaming white stone, laid out with strips of red carpet that wove around the displays. The paintings were encased behind non-reflective glass, arranged by artist and period. A number of guests had already started doing the rounds of the exhibition, talking in low voices and pointing this way and that. As more people filtered inside behind Ben and Donatella, the murmur of soft conversation gradually filled the sunlit room. Some seemed impressed by the new building, though one or two faces showed disapproval.

‘It’s hideous,’ a stringy, white-haired woman in a blue dress was muttering to her husband. He was about ninety and walked with a stick. ‘Maybe not quite as offensive as the Louvre pyramid,’ she went on, ‘but hideous just the same.’

‘I find the concept has a very … organic quality, don’t you?’ one of the bohemians commented loudly to the woman he was with. ‘I mean, it’s so … what’s the word?’ He was padding about the gallery in open sandals, which together with his unkempt hair and beard probably attracted more offended glances from the other Italians than the design of the building. The Redford clone ignored him altogether.

‘So what do you think, Signor Hope?’ Donatella asked.

‘Like I said, I really don’t know that much about art,’ Ben said. But he knew enough to understand now why galleries across the world had been jittery about lending their pieces for this exhibition. The canvases around the walls bore enough famous signatures to pop any art lover’s cork. Picasso, Chagal, Monet. ‘And Da Vinci,’ he said, raising his eyebrows.

‘Oh yes,’ Donatella chuckled. ‘All the big names are here. They really wanted to put on a show to launch the centre. Fabio told me they wanted to get a Delacroix too, but they didn’t have the wall space.’ She touched Ben’s arm and pointed across the gallery at a man in an immaculate silk suit, forties, carefully groomed. ‘That’s Aldo Silvestri, one of the owners. And see that man over there, standing beside the Picasso?’

‘That little fat guy there?’

‘I’m sure he’d love to hear you say that. Luigi Corsini is Silvestri’s business partner. But the real money comes from Count Pietro De Crescenzo. Without his influence, the gallery would not have been possible, and certainly not an exhibition of this calibre.’

Donatella pointed out the man to Ben. Late fifties, tall and gaunt with thin oiled hair, he could have passed for an undertaker if it hadn’t been for the dapper bow tie. He was standing with a group of people on the far side of the room, sipping a glass of wine. ‘The De Crescenzos are one of the oldest aristocratic families of this region, with quite a colourful history,’ she filled in.

‘You know them?’

She nodded. ‘The count has funded several of Fabio’s projects in the past.’

De Crescenzo seemed to sense them talking about him. Giving Donatella a smile, he excused himself from the group and approached. Donatella explained to the count that Fabio had been held up, and introduced Ben. ‘Please call me Pietro,’ De Crescenzo said as he shook Ben’s hand. ‘I only use the title to open doors and impress stuffy politicians and museum boards. So, Signor Hope, I gather despite your extremely fluent Italian that you are not from these parts.’

‘I’m just passing through,’ Ben said.

‘You are on vacation? Remaining a few days in Italy?’

‘Sadly not. I’ll be flying to London tomorrow.’

De Crescenzo shuddered. ‘Air travel. I cannot bring myself to get on one of those things. Quite irrational, I know.’

‘It’s a very impressive setup you have here,’ Ben said.

De Crescenzo smiled widely, showing uneven, grey teeth. ‘Thank you, thank you. We have been extremely fortunate in securing such a fabulous and eclectic range of wonderful pieces.’

‘Have your family always been patrons of the arts?’ Ben asked, knowing his supply of cultural small talk was going to run out fast.

‘Far from it. My grandfather, Count Rodingo De Crescenzo, was a boorish and tyrannical man who despised culture with almost as much passion as he loathed the artistic genius of his first wife, Gabriella. It is to her that we owe the artistic heritage of my family. After doing everything in his power to suppress her talent, my grandfather ironically did the most to nurture it when he expelled her from the family home in 1925, leaving her destitute. Freed from his controlling influence, she eventually went on to find fame and fortune painting under her maiden name, Gabriella Giordani.’

Ben nodded and smiled politely, a little taken aback by De Crescenzo’s somewhat dramatic account of his family past. When he suddenly realised that the count was waiting for him to react to the mention of the name Gabriella Giordani, he shrugged apologetically and said, ‘As I was telling Donatella, my knowledge of art is pretty limited. I’m afraid I haven’t come across your grandmother’s work.’

De Crescenzo frowned sadly and shook his head. ‘Rodingo and Gabriella had no children. My father was born only after Rodingo had remarried, to a woman of great beauty but little else. Otherwise, I might have had the honour of being related in more than name to the most accomplished and admired Italian female artist of the twentieth century.’ He swept an arm enthusiastically behind him at a section of the exhibition.

Ben gazed in the direction he was pointing. ‘And that one too?’ he said, motioning at an oil portrait of a striking-looking man of about thirty, in a red velvet jacket with a high collar.

‘You have a keen eye for style, Signor Hope,’ De Crescenzo said. ‘Yes, that is also a Giordani.’

Ben took a step closer to the portrait and examined it for a moment. There was something aristocratic about the man in the painting, yet not supercilious or arrogant. The artist seemed to have captured a real sense of humility and gentleness in her subject. The little plaque below the edge of the frame simply said ‘Leo’, with the date 1925. Ben wondered who Leo had been.

‘Just one of her many celebrated works here on display,’ De Crescenzo said. ‘Including a quite incredible recent discovery.’ He said this in a hushed tone of reverence, as though referring to the finger-bone of Christ. Ben waited for more.

‘During the recent restoration of my ancestral home, the Palazzo De Crescenzo – it is far too large to live in, of course – workmen came upon a secret room where it seems the young and terribly unhappy countess carried on her art behind her husband’s back. He had forbidden her to paint, you see. We found several previously unknown works of hers, which are being exhibited here today for the very first time.’ Looking even more excited, De Crescenzo added, ‘And sensationally, among the pieces we discovered in her personal collection were several items by other artists – including a most magnificent miniature charcoal sketch by the artist Goya that had long been believed lost.’

Ben turned to look as he pointed out the piece of artwork across the room. It was a small, simple, shaded monochrome image of a solitary man kneeling humbly to pray inside what could have been a monastic cell.

Again Ben could feel De Crescenzo’s eyes on him and felt expected to comment knowledgeably, but he just nodded appreciatively and tried not to think about that glass of wine Donatella had promised him. He fought the urge to glance at his watch.

‘Naturally it is almost worthless compared to some of the other works here on display,’ De Crescenzo went on rather too grandly. ‘But I founded this academy in April 1987 to honour Gabriella Giordani’s sad passing the previous year, and I cannot tell you how thrilled we are to be able to mark the inauguration of our new centre with a display of her very own collection. For me, it is what makes this exhibition so special.’

‘I’m very pleased for you,’ Ben said. ‘Congratulations.’

‘You’ll be wanting that wine now,’ Donatella whispered as they left the count to carry on the rounds of the guests.

‘I don’t know what gives you that impression,’ Ben said. What a character, he was thinking.

Donatella smiled slyly. ‘This way.’ She led him through the crowd to the far side of the gallery, where two doors led off from the main space. One was shut and marked ‘Private’. The other was open, leading into a side room where a long table was covered in expensive finger food and drinks. The glasses were crystal, the white wine was on ice and the red had been opened in advance to breathe at room temperature. Catering done properly. Donatella chose white, while Ben helped himself to a glass of excellent Chianti and suddenly felt much better.

Gianni was allowed to wander about the exhibition on strict orders to behave himself and stay within sight. Away from the chatter of the guests, Ben and Donatella sipped their drinks and talked for a few minutes. She was warm, vivacious and smiled a lot. He found her company relaxing and enjoyable. She told him a little more about her husband’s church restoration project, and then asked him about his own business. Ben had long ago learned to answer those kinds of questions without sounding evasive but without getting too specific about the kind of training that went on at Le Val. She’d visited that part of France a few years earlier and was curious to know if his home was anywhere near to Mont Saint Michel, which he told her it was.

As they talked and the minutes went by, neither of them noticed the white Mercedes van that was pulling up outside, or the men who were getting out.

Chapter Eleven

It was exactly 6.45 p.m. when the van appeared on the driveway and drew up in the forecourt outside the entrance of the Academia Giordani. The window rolled down as the two security guys swaggered up to the vehicle, putting on their best officious frowns. Ghini, the one with the moustache, was the first to notice the intimidating bulk of the van driver as he leaned out to talk to them. He could see himself and his colleague, Buratti, reflected like a couple of dorks in the mirror lenses of the guy’s wraparound shades. He folded his arms across his chest to make them look bigger, tried to act tough and let Buratti do the talking.

‘Think you’re in the wrong place, guys,’ Buratti said.

The driver looked puzzled, shook his head. ‘This is the Academia Giordani, yeah? Delivery for you.’

‘Not that I was told about.’

The big guy produced a yellow printed sheet from his bulging breast pocket. ‘See for yourself.’

Buratti studied it carefully. It did indeed look as if the goods had been ordered. ‘We have a problem. There’s an exhibition on here now.’

‘So?’

‘So can’t you see there are people inside? I can’t have a bunch of workmen spoiling the view from the gallery windows. You’re gonna have to come back tomorrow.’

‘No way. Not till next month, pal. We’re booked solid.’

‘We’ll see about that when I talk to your boss.’

‘I am the boss.’

Buratti chewed his lip, his brow twisted in thought. Turning the delivery away was bound to wind up with him getting an earful from someone. ‘OK. But make it quick. I want that stuff unloaded and this van out of here in five minutes.’

‘Fine.’

Buratti waved the van through and it drove around the side of the building, tyres crunching on gravel, followed the path round the back and pulled up in view of the new modern wing. The diesel died with a shudder.

Rocco Massi swung open his door and jumped down. Bellomo and Garrone did the same, nobody saying a word. Through the tall glass windows Rocco could see the people inside, milling about staring at a bunch of paintings. Chattering, pointing, admiring, one or two standing around sipping wine. Bunch of smug shits. All too preoccupied to notice anything. He grinned. Five minutes from now, things would be a whole lot different for these good folks.

The two security guards were watching impatiently from near the entrance. Rocco jerked his head as if to call them over, and they came stomping across the gravel. Their tough guy act deflated with every step. He was a foot taller than either of them, and the tight black T-shirt showed every muscle. Bellomo and Garrone leaned up against the side of the van, watching in silence.

‘What is it?’ Buratti said.

‘Change of plan, fellas,’ Rocco said. ‘If you want us out of here fast, you’re gonna have to help us unload.’

‘What?’