Three Monks from Florence E-Book

Hendrik Hoitinga

• Herausgeber: novum publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 427

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Auction House manager Sophie receives an oil painting and delves into its history. She enlists the help of Sam and Martijn and learn about three monks and their secretive journey over four-hundred years ago. Planned by a priest in the past, in the present world, clues come to light about a treasure and about others who will stop at nothing to possess it. Terri, a young Museum Curator, and Tammy from New York, join Sophie in a search that spreads from the Bosporus in the east to the Bay of San Francisco in the west. Their quest takes them to Florence, Italy, where they must use their combined knowledge that they have gathered to solve the ancient mystery surrounding a princess. Three keys, three clues, three locks to choose, will the riddle be solved? Will the treasure be found?

Leseprobe

Imprint

All rights of distribution, also through movies, radio and television, photomechanical reproduction, sound carrier, electronic medium and reprinting in excerpts are reserved.

© 2024 novum publishing

ISBN print edition:978-3-99146-597-3

ISBN e-book: 978-3-99146-598-0

Editor:Charlotte Middleton

Cover illustrations: Rainbowchaser, Elena Schweitzer, Andreykuzmin | Dreamstime.com

Cover design, layout & typesetting: novum publishing

www.novum-publishing.co.uk

BOOK 1 Three keys. Three clues.

Dedication page for Three Monks from Florence;

For Gilly

In New Zealand we met and wed

Our children were born there too,

We travelled far and wide,

Now in the North of Scotland reside.

Thank you for who you are and all you do,

Know this, my poppet, that I love you.

Also, for my mum Jitske and my sisters Ann & Dieuwke

Author’s favourite passage of Scripture;

‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart,

And lean not on your own understanding.

In all your ways acknowledge Him,

And He shall direct your paths’.

Proverbs 3; 5-6

PROLOGUE

Cannes, Southern France 1963

The white open-topped Mercedes 230sl Pagoda drove at high speed along the coast road from Nice, heading for Cannes.

Despite the weather being overcast and several dark clouds threatening to deposit rain any time soon, the female driver wore large round dark sunshades. The scarf she had tied over her hair and fastened under her chin was billowing and struggled to contain her long red hair.

It was a little before one o’clock in the afternoon and though driving at speed, she had control of the vehicle, regularly checking in the rear-view mirror.

Her face was set in full concentration, her red lips almost a grimace.

With ease she passed two cars in succession, checked her rear-view mirror again and began to relax a little.

Cannes was not far away now.

Roberto Solari finished his lunch in the harbour-front cafe, nodded goodbye to the owner and left the premises. He walked along the waterfront and looked out to sea.

He took in the fresh air, looked at the dark clouds above and figured he had better get a move on if he didn’t want to get wet.

It was the first week of May and posters were up on fences and in shop windows – the film festival was coming, commencing on the 9th.

Roberto reflected as he followed a path away from the seafront leading to an apartment building. He had moved from Monaco, where in Monte Carlo he had previously lived and worked after a few sizeable commissions had afforded him to do so.

This had been in the year 1948, after the film festival had relaunched the previous year, Roberto having a sense that there could be good business to be had.

His apartment was on the top, the fifth floor, and comprised of a large room which he had transformed into his studio, then a further four rooms, made up from a small dining room that opened into the kitchen, then two good-sized bedrooms, one of which had an ensuite, and a further bathroom. Already over fifteen years ago, he mused, since he moved here, getting ready to cross the road.

The sound of a car approaching accompanied by several beeps on the horn stopped him in his tracks.

The white Mercedes braked, skidded a little, then stopped, the woman behind the wheel calling out.

‘Roberto!’She switched off the engine and got out. She was very slim, Roberto noted, and wore a tight-fitting pencil skirt which hampered her a bit as she got out of the car. Her shoes, white, had sharply pointed toes and heels that were surely three inches or more. The blouse was white, partly tucked into the skirt, partly out.

He didn’t recognise her, but she obviously knew him. Crossing the road, after letting another car pass, he walked towards the woman, who was now leaning back against the car awaiting his arrival. As he drew near, she took off those big sunglasses and her green eyes focusing on him said, ‘Natalie Umbrego.’

Then he remembered her; the red hair tucked under the scarf prompted his recollection.

‘Ah, yes, what, two weeks ago, the party on the yacht?’ he asked, stopping several feet away and recalling a redhead in a black evening dress, though he had only briefly seen her, noticing that on those heels she was taller than he.

‘Si, yes. I need you to do something for me; I will pay well…’ she began, then anxiously looked past him down the road.

He sensed her tenseness, in the body language, in the voice, speaking French with an Italian accent, which was somewhat rushed. Then, looking in the car he noticed it tucked behind the passenger seat.

‘I know, somebody tell me,’ she said, ‘tell me where you live, tell you lunch at the same time,’ then reaching in and drawing out the parcel, wrapped in a large beach towel, she continued, ‘tell me you paint, make copies, but, no, I don’t want that. I need you to clean and fix, is very dirty and ripped in places. You can do this?’

She handed him the wrapped painting, then looking past him again she said,’I have to go; can’t explain. I’ll be back, in a week or so!’

Then she manoeuvred herself with that tight skirt back into the car, turned on the ignition and sped away.

Roberto stepped onto the pavement, clutching the painting, watching her disappear. Then, as he walked up the path which led to the foyer of his apartment building, he heard another car, heard the loud engine, turned and watched as a dark-brown coloured car, what looked to him to be a Jaguar, sped past.

He frowned, then shook his head and turned to enter the building, thinking about what she had said. Lunch at the same time? Was he that habitual?

Stepping into the old elevator, the blanket-wrapped painting under his arm, he figured that he must be, thinking that he ought to perhaps vary his routine. Pressing the button for the fifth floor, he then wondered what might be revealed when he took the blanket off.

THE PRESENT

Thursday 23rd April 2020 – Paris

Hospitals were struggling to cope. The death toll was rising in vast numbers every day around the world. The COVID-19 virus was spreading throughout nations, affecting rich and poor, making no distinction of race or colour or creed.

It was the elderly that were at most risk, as were those with lung-related illnesses. Travel was now severely restricted, cities were in lockdown, people were urged to work from home where they could, wear masks everywhere and wash hands, keep distance and drink fluids.

Sophie Pontiac was home. The Paris Fine Arts Auction House, where she was the manager, was closed. The director, Emmanuel Sauvonne, had caught the virus, thankfully just bedridden and not in hospital.

Sophie had just got off the phone with his wife when there was a ring on the doorbell.

Donning her mask she went to the hallway and tentatively opened the door leading into the foyer area.

‘Special delivery, ma’am,’ the courier, a female, also wearing a mask, said. ‘No need for a signature; have a good day,’ and with that she left, leaving the parcel standing against the wall.

Sophie sized up the package, wrapped in cardboard, taped securely. It was around sixty centimetres in height and close to forty-five centimetres wide. It was less than four centimetres in depth.

‘Merci,’ Sophie called out then leant to pick up the parcel.

It was not heavy.

After having taken the cardboard wrapping apart, leaving just what Sophie assumed to be a painting inside a plastic sleeve lined with tissue paper, she then disposed of the cardboard, washed her hands thoroughly and proceeded to uncover what it was that had been sent to her.

There had been no return address, no inkling, yet, as to who it was from.

Slicing the Cellotape loose, Sophie slid the painting out from the sleeve. A sealed envelope fell out along with it. Ignoring the letter for a moment, she studied the piece. It was an oil painted on wood. It was old, she was sure of that, very old.

It wasn’t a masterpiece – in some places it was almost naive, a little crudely painted.

It was a monk, in a typical monk’s attire. The clothing, the staff he had in his hands, the cross and some sort of key that hung around his neck, these were all rather nicely detailed. The hands and face of the monk were less refined. This puzzled Sophie. As she carefully studied the piece, it was as if the monk himself wasn’t important. After scrutinising it for some time, she was sure of several things.

First, it was old. Judging by the style, the composition, the wood upon which it had been painted, which was likely poplar, she figured it to be mid-sixteenth century and Italian.

Secondly, it was on a panel, and she was sure, looking at the edges, that it had been a triptych – it was one of three panels. Moreover, she was certain that she held the centre piece. At the top and bottom of the painting, ever so faintly, in the centre, she noticed lines where the other two side panels would have closed upon it.

And lastly, she felt sure that the important aspect of this painting was not the monk himself but the attire he wore, the staff he held and the items that hung around his neck.

Time to read the letter.

It was from Roberto Solari.

‘Dearest Sophie,’ the letter, typewritten in French, began. ‘It was very nice to see you last year when you and your English friend, Victoria, came to visit.

It was afterwards that I made up my mind that it was to you that this painting should go. Let me tell you, Sophie, this is not a forgery. I cleaned and mended several gashes it had. This was some time ago. I believe it to have been painted in the mid to late fifteen hundreds, most likely. Having a long time ago done some research on it, it was done in Italy, probably Rome, but there is no signature or date. Let me tell you the story of how I came to have it…’

THE PAST

Period 1

The year 1578 – Florence, Italy

In what was once a formal dining room, Father Dominic had set himself up, using the long polished oak dining table as a desk. Here he had sat and scribed the detailed letters; here he had scribed the instructions for the three monks he had chosen. Here he had scribed the letter for the woman.

He had chosen her with care. She was young, merely two decades, but she came from a good family, a loyal family.

Whilst the plague which had wiped out half the city’s population was already some two hundred years behind them, a current illness was sweeping through the land.

It was this virus, this disease, which had been the cause of the difficulty Father Dominic now faced. He had to think fast, to think clearly and to make sure that everything was in place, that everything was accounted for, everything was protected. And the first thing, was to make sure the baby was safe.

A little girl.

The young woman he had chosen, he felt, could be fully relied upon, also knowing she had a feisty nature. Even though she had just entered a convent, she wasn’t afraid to speak up and would not be easily intimidated. He had organised for her to come and see him, nearly two weeks ago.

She had been wary at first, had stood in front of the table that he was now using as a desk, having not taken up the offer to be seated. She stood straight and her eyes were totally focused on him. In that moment he knew he had chosen well.

He began to explain then handed her the letter.

She took it, looked at him, and decided to sit down.

When he had looked at her, and she had looked up after reading the letter, questioning with his eyes, she had merely nodded.

His next object was twofold: find a painter, good, but not established, not well known, and secondly, a master craftsman who knew about locks.

Then his last task was to select three men. Three monks who could be totally trusted, could read and write and be physically fit enough to travel a long distance.

It was early evening. Father Dominic sat at his makeshift desk. One table lamp was already lit and glowing on the polished surface. Nearly time to move; nearly time to leave. Everything was in place. The last part of his plan had been the painted triptych. This was now ready and he himself would take it with him.

He praised the Lord that it had all been accomplished in time, for he knew that trouble would come knocking. Finishing up, tidying up and taking himself off to the room in which he had slept for the past seven weeks now, he was ready.

They came the following morning.

If they thought they might surprise him at this time of day, the sun having only just made an appearance, they were mistaken. He had been up for hours already.

Someone, a man Father Dominic recognised as a local tradesman, usually seen sharpening knives and tools in the town, unlocked the front door and let them in, a woman and a man.

‘Well, figured you would be here, Father. Where is she?’ the woman asked, noticing him, standing ever so still, in the large foyer as she entered the house.

‘Who?’ he asked.

The woman, glaring at him, said, ‘You know very well who.’

‘Very well, follow me,’ he said then turned and headed for a door which led from the main foyer of the large house. Opening it, he said, ‘One moment; I need to get a lantern.’ There was one on a small shelf just inside the door and Father Dominic fetched it out. It was already lit. Then, looking at the woman, he said, ‘Careful down these steps,’ then turned and led the way, thinking that although he shouldn’t feel this way, he secretly had no wish for her to be careful on these steps.

The tradesman, who had opened the front door, receiving a nod from the woman, turned and left, closing the front door behind him.

There were some twenty stone steps. At the bottom, making sure to hold the lantern up to see the floor clearly, Father Dominic turned left, then, taking a moment, he lit another lantern, placing it on the floor.

They were in a small crypt. There were three coffins, two normal sized, one small.

‘She died,’ Father Dominic said. His voice was calm and without emotion.

He made sure they could see the child’s coffin, in particular the name on the copper plate he had engraved. Anna Kastanje 1575–1578.

The woman and the younger man beside her stood for a moment, then the woman said, her voice hard and with a tone of menace, ‘How can we be sure they are actually in there, especially the girl…?’ Turning, she noticed that Father Dominic had gone. ‘Father?’

She looked up the long steps, was sure he hadn’t gone up there. Where was he?

The lantern he had held was on the bottom step. In the dim light the man and woman looked at each other.

Using the lantern, the woman walked around the small crypt, but there was no sign of him, no sign of any other doorway.

‘Come on’ she said to the man, ‘we’ll check through the house,’ then, having already moved back up the stone staircase, the man picking up the other lantern and following, she continued, ‘and have someone check those coffins – all of them!’

Alexandria Wenschelburg was furious. Sitting in the very chair, behind the very same dining table in the former dining room of the big house, where Father Dominic had sat earlier in the day, and for most days these past weeks, prior to their arrival, she glared at the young man who had accompanied her when they had entered the house at dawn.

‘Nothing. There is nothing here, nothing of value. Some paintings that I know were here are gone, most of the furniture, gone, several vases, gone, but more importantly, all the jewellery, gone… and where did Father Dominic disappear to?’

The young man, Nikolai, also a Wenschelburg, wisely did not say a word as he looked across the table at his aunt.

‘You checked the coffins?’ she asked, finally looking up at him, her face still showing fury and a shade of almost purple.

‘Definitely, Uncle and Aunt, not having seen the little girl…’

‘But there was a body?’

‘Yes.’

Several moments of silence. Alexandria was suddenly feeling drained and tired. They had travelled, some distance, from Trieste to reach Florence, to get to the little girl. Someone in her family had advised of the death, through this plague thing, of her sister and her husband. There had been no mention that the girl too had died.

She was suspicious.

Even more so, now that, having searched throughout the big house, they had discovered many items of value not present, that along with the vast amount of jewellery that she knew her sister had, plus the fact, that this Father Dominic, whom she had heard about, had so suddenly and mysteriously vanished.

As the sun had almost reached its zenith on this warm day, Father Dominic sat inside a carriage drawn by two horses. His personal belongings and the painted triptych were with him. He was travelling to Rome.

He was going to stay a while with a distant cousin, Cardinal Farnese.

Smiling, he praised the Lord for good timing. Glancing down at his leather satchel, his smile broadened, as he knew he had all the legal documents and paperwork with him which would ensure that Madam Wenschelburg could make no claim on the property.

Meanwhile, around one hundred and twenty miles to the north-east, in Genoa

Viana Vanetti leaned on the wooden railing of the schooner. Standing near the bow she was watching the goings on in the port. She had already placed all her luggage on board, having been giving one of the officer’s cabins.

Three months.

She had arrived here early in the month of February, remembering the early morning ride by horse and carriage from Rome to the port of Civitavecchia, on her way, she had hoped, to the city of Antwerp. However, upon arrival in Genoa, staying with one of the cardinal’s cousins, she had been told of the turmoil and danger and had not been permitted to travel any further at that time.

Viana smiled to herself, recalling how, at first, she thought it might have been a ploy, concocted by the cardinal and her mother, to keep her from going further with this quest she had to locate her potential father.

But having seen the expression of the man that evening at the dinner table, she had seen the genuine concern for her welfare, and understanding the responsibility he had for her, she complied with his wishes.

Viana moved away from where she had been leaning and walked towards the stern. At twenty-four years old, she was tall, around five feet ten inches. A breeze played with her long dark hair. Her vivid blue eyes continued to take in the activities dockside, in preparation for the ship to leave.

She had recently received a letter, from another of the cardinal’s wide-spread cousins. It was from Monaco – would she like to come and stay with them?

An offer she gladly accepted. It would take her a step closer.

She then noticed the arrival of a monk.

He seemed a little out of place. He wore a long cloak, a grey-green sort of colour, made from wool she thought. She noticed his bare feet were tucked into leather sandals, and he carried a stick around five feet in length, and across one shoulder a type of satchel.

Someone approached him, spoke briefly then gestured for the monk to follow him.

He looked up, noticed her. She gave a nod and a brief smile.

Her mother had been in charge of the servants and had also been a confidante to the cardinal. For Viana it had been a good upbringing in the Farnese household.

By the time she was sixteen, as well as Latin and Italian, she could also speak French fluently. She was looking forward to using that when she reached Monaco.

Viana, setting off to walk along the deck, stopped, looked up at the April sky and felt the breeze getting a little cooler.

Three months.

She was glad to be on the move again. Though she had been well looked after, even been given her own maid, she longed for more social occasions.

Back in Rome she had often accompanied the cardinal to functions and knew on these occasions that he felt almost like a proud father.

Viana had enjoyed those events, as she relished making conversation with people from a huge variety of backgrounds. These past months had not afforded her the opportunities for such events. She hoped for more social interactions when reaching Monaco. Deciding to go inside, as it was now threatening to rain, she would find this monk, looking to hear his story, where he had come from, where he was going. Her ability to speak Latin, though not a huge difference from Italian, would surely be of help. He would surely notice and appreciate that.

In the late afternoon, with the light already beginning to fade and the rain having set in, the two-masted schooner departed. Viana returned to her cabin. It wouldn’t be long before dinner time now; she was getting hungry. Sitting herself on the bed, she took out the leather pouch from a pocket in her long skirt. She would often hold it, take out its contents and admire the item inside.

It was the very item which had been bequeathed to her, the lovely miniature, painted on ivory, the very item which had prompted her quest, her longing, to travel and to seek out the person who had so beautifully made it. More importantly however, the person who, she was in no doubt, was her father.

Viana smiled to herself, recalling the conversation she had just had with the monk.

She had sought him out, finding him in the narrow galley of the ship, tucking into a bowl of soup. At first, he was incredibly shy, would hardly look at her.

But she was good at putting people at ease. She spoke to him, in Latin, telling him all about the cardinal, her mother, the many people she had met and that she was on her way to Monaco to stay with some relations of the cardinal.

She did not tell him the reason for her journey, but as she spoke, he became more and more relaxed. He could see her genuine interest in him and started to talk.

Viana looked at the item she had slipped from the pouch, held it, felt it, then kissed it and put it back into the black leather pouch. In one of her leather bags were five other pieces of art by the same artist, given to her by a fellow artist, upon his death, a good friend of the cardinal, Giulio Clovio.

Standing up from the bunk, Viana checked herself in the mirror which hung above a wooden dresser, tucked the pouch back in the pocket of her skirt and thought back to the story the monk had told.

His name was Bonifatius, he was from Florence, and once he had overcome his shyness and could see the real interest of the striking woman who stood there by him in the galley, he told her the quest he was on. He, along with two others, had been given an assignment, a challenge of sorts, each of them chosen for this task.

He himself had to make his way to the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela, in the west, a pilgrim journey. His brother monk, whose name was Flavius, was sent to the north, to the cathedral in Cologne, and the third brother, Ignatius, to the southeast, to a cathedral in Izmir.

As the Romans had thus far already travelled well throughout Europe, they were each given a rudimentary map featuring some highlights here and there, towns and landmark features which would guide them on their way.

Viana wished him well in his pilgrimage and left him to finish his soup. Quite a journey to undertake, with more or less just the clothes on his back, she was thinking as she prepared herself to go to dinner, enjoying the motion of the ship as it sailed towards Monaco.

THE PRESENT

Friday 24th April – San Francisco

Terri Hudson swigged a little water from the bottle she carried around with her practically everywhere. As with so many places, the museum was closed.

Though many people had been asked if they could possibly work from home, this, in Terri’s case, was just not feasible. She had decided to use the time, and the pleasure of not being disturbed, to do some cataloguing.

She was the assistant curator of the Museum of Art.

Terri had changed her name back again, to that of her mother, her biological mother, from whom she had been kidnapped when only seven years old.

She had then lived and been schooled in a private girls’ school for the next ten years, believing herself to be the daughter of Julian and Sandra Pentegrass.

Julien was indeed her real father, but his name was Rozzini. Sandra was his new wife, and they chose her name to register Terri, as he was wanted by the police in Oregon. Over the years she had made several friends at school but had only seen her father twice a year, if that. The woman, whom she believed to be her mother, had not been there on those occasions. She had grown accustomed to being alone, had for herself created a backstory that her folks were world travellers and so on…

To find out what had really happened had taken her by surprise. To be reunited with her real mother was fantastic, though a little awkward.

She was told the whole story, mainly through a letter, a letter written in guilt, by the woman called Sandra, who had since fled, had flown to Hawaii and had not been heard of again.

Terri had, slowly, bonded with her mother and was pleased about that.

She was also pleased that she had not been suffocated by lost love but was able to continue her schooling, coming away with a couple of degrees and had subsequently landed a job at the museum, working toward her aim of one day being a curator, especially in the field of art. Already, after less than a year, she had been made assistant curator.

Terri was very happy about that and could see that her mother, Alison, was too.

Taking another sip of water, she thought about her mother, and it just occurred to her that since being reunited with her, she had not once referred to her, not once called her, mother.

Screwing the cap back on the bottle, she sighed then carried on with her work.

She was also, with a large amount of money paid out to her through the courts, able to get herself into a lovely apartment only a stone’s throw from the museum.

This had been a little hard for her mother at first, but she had understood.

She loved her mother, knew the heartache and the struggle she had lived through over that period of ten years, even to the point of almost having been killed in the pursuit of finding her.

She knew of Sam, the man who had come to the rescue. She had heard her mother speak of him, sensing the emotion in her voice every time, and she looked forward to one day meeting him.

She would be forever grateful to him.

With the museum closed, due to the pandemic, she had the run of the place. Only a couple of colleagues had come in earlier in the day. But she was now alone.

In the large room, inaccessible to the public, which housed racks and racks of paintings which either had yet to be authenticated or had been put aside to make room for other acquisitions, she had set up a workstation.

Laptop, clipboard, pens and a folder to hand, she was checking the contents of this room, which, according to the notes in the folder, had not been done for three years.

The lockdown situation was an ideal time – no disturbance.

The now nineteen-year-old stood up, arched her back, took another swig of water, going through her third bottle that day, then checked her watch.

Five o’clock. She ought to think about going home, getting changed and, she had just remembered, she had promised to see her mother in the evening.

She was about to close her computer and get ready to leave when she heard a noise.

A clinking sound. Someone was in the building.

One of her colleagues coming back?

Her boss, perhaps?

She closed her laptop, exited the archive room then crossed through a room which, on occasion, was used as a training facility. But the tables had been folded and stacked away, as had the chairs, and her heels echoed around the walls as she walked across the wooden floor.

She headed for the door at the far end, which, as she got closer, opened.

THE PAST

Period 2

The year 1579 – Cologne, Germany

Of the three monks chosen by Father Dominic, Flavius was by far the eldest, almost twice the age of the other two. Also, he, most of all, had the look about him that folks would expect a monk to look like. He was shortish, stout and had a balding head with a trim of hair around the back in what is referred to as a tonsure style.

His green-brown cloak was several shades darker than those worn by the other two, and it almost touched the ground. The staff he carried was shorter and thicker and rather than a satchel of sorts, Flavius carried a small cask around his neck. He too also had adorned around his neck a cross and a key, though the key, made of silver, had a longer chain and was kept from view.

He was almost there. From the old farm building, where he had slept overnight in a loft area, he could see the imposing towers of the cathedral.

As he set off on this, the final part, of his pilgrim journey, he thought back to when Father Dominic had gathered the three of them. He had collected them from the monastery personally, had asked them to bring what little personal belongings they might have which they wanted to take with them, then had taken them to the house in the centre of the city. Here they would stay until it was time to go.

An imposing house, on the edge of the River Arno…

There he had taken them into the large dining room, where now there were only a few pieces of furniture, the large oak dining table, one chair on one side, three chairs on the opposite. On the table there lay some letters, and gleaming in the light by the table lamp there were three keys, three silver keys attached to silver chains.

Flavius noted that each key was different. Father Dominic then, after they had been asked to sit down, had sat himself opposite them and told them all about baby Anna…

The autumn sun rose from the horizon and having been given some food and drink by the farmer and his wife, Flavius walked through the countryside, the cathedral towers a beacon in the early morning light…

After the discussion and the assignment he had given them, Father Dominic took them to another room in the house, on the first floor, and there, in a room which had three windows facing the river, was a man.

There was an array of painting equipment. Three easels had been erected and three wood panels placed on each one. All were the same height, but two were narrower, in fact half the width of the centre panel.

The man was introduced, and Father Dominic, having brought along the keys, gave one to each of them and explained about the importance of the painting to be done.

Flavius, being the most senior, would be portrayed on the centre piece…

As he made his way along a narrow dirt road, Flavius smiled a little, thinking how uncomfortable he had felt, being painted by this artist, who, apparently, had travelled up from Rome.

He would be glad when he reached his destination.

With just a roughly sketched paper map in hand, he had set out from Florence.

He had reached the lower region of the Alps in a matter of days. Going over would be too hazardous, and so he began a journey around the foothills which eventually took him to the upper reaches of the Rhine.

Seeing this mighty river drawn on the map he had been given, Flavius looked for and found an opportunity to travel by barge.

Sadly, he wasn’t able to travel a vast distance, but nevertheless he figured to have cut his journey time by at least three days.

Flavius had also, at the beginning of his journey, thought deeply about the opportunity he had been given. This trek, this journey, was very much, he felt, an adventure, and one which he and his fellow brother monks were humbled to be given. He also thought about the choice he had: whether, after having safely delivered the important silver key, he would return to Florence, travel elsewhere, or stay in Cologne. Seeing the imposing towers of the cathedral drawing nearer and nearer, feeling his body ache in many places, Flavius had decided that he would stay.

Whilst near Izmir…

With the rain beating down, the wind howling, coming in from the sea, Ignatius was thankful that he had found shelter. The old barn wasn’t totally wind or rainproof, but he had found a spot that was dry and listened as the wind beat the rain against the wooden structure. The sea, not far away from where he was, was also audible. He heard the waves crashing on the shore.

He knew he wasn’t far away now from his destination and thought back to the time he had been in one of the upper rooms of the big house, standing as still as he could, whilst the artist was painting…

Flavius, the eldest, had been first. The artist, who spoke very little, took only a little time to bring up an outline then spent time focusing on the cloth of the cloak, the short staff that his fellow monk had, and the key, the silver key… As the rain lashed down, the wind not seemingly ready to calm down yet, Ignatius remembered, as he had waited, all that Father Dominic had told them: their instructions, their destination, the importance of that key, looking at the one he himself had around his neck…

He knew all their destinations. Bonifatius, to the west, destination the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela, a fair distance to travel. Flavius, currently trying hard to stand still, would be going north, to Cologne, perhaps not the same distance, but not easy, with mountain ranges to overcome. He was given Izmir, to the southeast.

At least it should be warmer, he had thought at the time.

As the youngest of the three, he was the last to be painted, thinking at the time, as he had seen the portraits done of his two brothers, how quickly and masterfully the artist had captured them…

The light grew a little brighter, the dark clouds began to lighten and the wind, at last, dwindled from a loud roar to a whisper.

There would still be enough daylight left to travel a little further. Prior to practically running towards the barn when the storm had started, he had seen a village of sorts not far away. Coming away from his sheltered spot, he was happy to continue.

He was hungry and for sure he would get some food somewhere.

Reaching the dirt road upon which he been travelling, with the coastline on his right, he again saw the settlement ahead.

Father Dominic, after giving each of them such detailed instructions, imparting to them the importance of their mission, had told them at the end, this after having spent four days in the big house, that it was up to them to find a new home at their respective destinations, or come back, or go anywhere else that perhaps God might be leading them to. With his stomach rumbling, Ignatius walked towards the small settlement and looked around him. Already he had taken in so much beautiful scenery, had in wonder appreciated God’s creation, and as he looked at the still somewhat turbulent sea to his right, he wondered if this was the area that he would stay in. First thing’s first though, he thought: something to eat. He had eaten a little not long after the sun had risen; it was now mid-afternoon. He figured that he should reach Izmir the following day.

THE PRESENT

Saturday 25th April – Paris

Sophie had decided to involve two men. Two men who meant very much to her, two men whom she trusted and cared for.

One was Sam, Sam Price, now living in Boston and about to, hopefully, due to these pandemic restrictions, get married in the new year to Chrissie.

She had, at one point, fallen for Sam, had, perhaps hoped even, certainly longed for, a relationship, but it just wasn’t to be. She considered him to be a great and trusted friend. After all, he had come to her rescue once.

Then there was Martijn Vogel. He was a Dutch policeman. Sam had called on him to help her, and, lo and behold a relationship, a courtship, had developed, both working together on research at the time, but the distance apart was too much of a distance apart, but she cared for him, liked him, a lot.

Sam was good at his research, especially when it came to pieces of art. Martijn, being a policeman, could hopefully help with what she had learned from the letter Roberto had written her. It was very early on Saturday morning. Sophie made herself some breakfast, a light breakfast, two slices of toast, topped with a lashing of jam, a glass of orange juice and a cup of tea. Looking out of the kitchen window in her apartment, she took her mind back to the previous day.

Having spent some considerable time in researching the painting that had arrived on her doorstep, having read the letter from Roberto over and over again and being none the wiser, she had then made the decision to involve both Sam and Martijn.

She had sent Sam an e-mail, along with a couple of photos she had taken of the painting and having asked him what he could find out, she would await his reply.

She had, in the late afternoon, contacted Martijn, briefly spoke about the parcel she had received, informed him of the circumstances in which the painting had come to Roberto and asked if he could find out anything surrounding that time and place, back in 1963. She had wanted to speak longer, but realising her heart was beating quite a bit faster, and rather than not being able to control her voice, had made an excuse quickly and had ended the call.

No doubt about it. She still had feelings for him.

Meanwhile it was ten o’clock on Friday evening in San Francisco

Alison Hudson stood in her kitchen and knew she had feelings for him.

What a day it had been, or more precisely, she thought, as she took the dishes out of the dishwasher, what a few hours.

Automatically placing the crockery and cutlery in their right places, she took her mind back to only hours earlier, when he had stood in her kitchen, preparing the meal, which he had insisted he would like to do…

‘Still nothing?’ he had asked, looking concerned, as he could see that she was worried.

‘No,’ Alison answered. ‘It’s so unlike her…’

‘You know that she was going to the museum, was going to do some cataloguing?’ he said, turning the oven off and walking towards her, deciding to take charge.

‘Yes,’ Alison answered, then looking up from her phone as he approached, asked, ‘Why?’

‘Then we go there. It can’t be that far; see if her car is there, knock on windows and doors,’ he answered, then stopping right before her, he took hold of her shoulders, looked into her eyes and said, ‘break the door down if we have to,’ smiling.

Alison briefly smiled back at him.

‘Okay, thank you. Can we take your rental?’

‘Of course.’

Releasing her shoulders, he watched her turn and head for the hallway.

He followed, recalling a time, not that long ago, when he had first met her.

She had arrived by taxi, at the police station in Albuquerque. He had arrived on his trusty Indian motorcycle. She had assumed that he was with the police, ordered him to take her to the bus station. She had been commanding and confident.

He had fallen for her that day.

He had flown from his hometown to spend a weekend with her. They had been talking on the phone regularly for the past eight months or so.

She had invited him. He had accepted. He had arrived in a rental he had picked up from the airport to find her a little upset and worried.

She had tried on several occasions to reach her daughter, had invited her over to meet the man she had spoken to her about.

To meet Simon Lightfoot.

Three minutes later, holding the passenger door open for her, Alison got into the car and gave instructions as to where to go.

He looked across at her, smiling, saying, ‘This is the you I remember, giving instructions!’

She smiled back at him, feeling relaxed to be with him, but something was bothering her. She sensed that something was wrong.

Was Terri alright?

Two hours earlier

It was unusual for anyone to be here. It had just gone five o’clock, and when the door opened, Terri was first surprised but was then the first to react.

One of the things she had learned, particularly in an all-girls’ school and being prepared for the outside world, was self-defence.

Two people suddenly appeared. A man and a woman.

They were as startled as she was but reacted slower.

Terri, a very fit nineteen-year-old, moved forward quickly then kicked out her left foot, catching the man just below the knee on his left leg, then in quick succession shot her other leg out, connecting right on target.

The man gasped, cried out in pain and buckled to the floor, clutching where Terri’s foot had connected hard. But by this time, the woman had reacted, had taken several steps away and when Terri turned to face her, she noticed the gun in her hand.

No amount of speed and momentum she might have would match that of a bullet. Terri stepped away from the man, who was still groaning softly and struggling to get up.

He would be in his late twenties, she figured, was slightly stocky in build, already showed signs of hair loss, and his face was somewhere between deep red and purple. Terri looked steadily into the eyes of the woman holding the gun, thinking it was perhaps her she should have attacked first.

She was about the same age as the man, had short blond hair, blue eyes that returned her gaze steadily, and she was obviously contemplating what to do next.

The gun, a small handgun, was held firmly with both hands.

Terri was in no doubt that the woman would shoot if provoked.

Hands by her side, she stood and waited.

Just under two hours later

‘That’s her car,’ Alison said, spotting it as they came around the corner and into the rear car parking area of the museum which was used for staff.

Simon drove the car right up to it.

Just then, a blue-coloured van drove around a far corner of the building. Picking up speed quickly, it drove past as both Simon and Alison were getting out, and sped away. Alison was running towards the staff entrance of the museum.

Simon focused on the van, noted the number, grabbed his phone and pressed the emergency code. Then, following Alison, who was by now trying the door handle, he repeated the number softly to himself, waiting for the call to be answered.

Alison ran away from the door, heading around the corner of the building the van had emerged from. Simon followed, answered the woman who spoke and said he wanted the police.

He was also aware that Alison had gone from view and ran to catch up with her.

He then, whilst running, told her of a suspected crime having taken place at the museum, told of a blue-coloured van speeding away and recited the number.

Alison had reached another door, tried the handle and it opened.

‘In here,’ she called out, sensing that Simon wasn’t far behind her, faintly registering that he was on the phone to someone.

‘Terri, Terri!’ she called out, her voice echoing inside the empty building.

‘Where would she have been? What was she going to do today?’ Simon asked, right beside Alison now.

Alison stopped, looked at him, thought for a second, ‘Cataloguing!’

‘This way.’

She had been here before. Her daughter had proudly showed her around, showed her the office, which was hers to work from, and the various rooms and ante-rooms of the art museum. She knew where her daughter was going to be today.

Simon followed, impressed at the turn of speed Alison had.

He had fallen for her on that first encounter. He knew now that he was very much falling in love with this woman.

Alison opened a door – there was a stairway before them. She strode down, two steps at a time, Simon now having to move fast to keep pace. Then there was a door, and she called out again as she opened it.

‘Terri!’

‘Mother? In here! The blue door!’

Relieved to hear her voice, it didn’t register then that she had called her ‘mother’.

The door was locked as she tried the knob.

Simon could see that it was a store cupboard of sorts, not a door which needed a secure lock. ‘Let me,’ he said, stepping in front of Alison.

Then, producing some sort of tool from his jeans pocket, he inserted it and with a few wiggles and prods, heard the click. The door opened.

Terri blinked from the sudden burst of light coming into the room.

She was tied, wrists behind her, to a steel rack that held copious volumes of books.

They had shoved her inside, secured her and left, closing the door, locking it and throwing the key across the room. She had heard it slide across the wooden floor.

Alison reached her first, took hold of her daughter’s face and kissed her forehead, and Simon, having found a light switch, turned it on and made his way to untie the girl’s wrists.

When her arms were free, she embraced her mother, kissed her on the cheek, then said, ‘I must check something; we need to call the police,’ then slipped past them both out of the cupboard and ran towards the next door. This she opened and entered. Alison, throwing a look at Simon, followed.

‘The police are on the way,’ Simon said, ‘I hear sirens. I’ll meet them. I take it the main doors are this way?’ He indicated with his hand.

Alison turned, took in what he had said, then quickly walked up to him, planted a kiss on his lips then said, ‘Yes, go!’

Simon smiled. The relief on her face was plain for him to see.

Alison went through the door Terri had disappeared through and found her at the far end of the room. There was a small table, upon which were several what looked to be ring-binder folders, a small laptop, and various sheets of paper.

Terri had one of the ring-binders open and was walking towards a passageway. There were four such passageways, each with racks on either side which could slide in and out, each rack containing a piece of art.

Alison did not remember having entering this room before. Perhaps Terri hadn’t shown her. She was amazed at how many paintings there were as she walked down the passage following her daughter.

Terri had pulled out a rack.

‘This is the one,’ she said, looking around at her approaching mother. ‘I have just been here; this one is out of place. It is also empty.’

‘Fingerprints,’ Alison called out, reaching her daughter’s side.

‘Of course,’ Terri said, blushing a little. ‘Well done, Mother.’

Alison felt her heart beat loudly in her chest. This was not just from the exertion, the running, the calling out, the finding. This was because, she now realised, that she had called her ‘mother’, twice now.

‘Come here a minute,’ she said, stopping in front of Terri.

They hugged for several moments.

Voices were heard.

‘In here, Simon,’ Alison said, turning around.

Moments later he appeared.

‘Meet my lovely daughter, Terri,’ she said, then turning, said, ‘Terri, this is Simon.’

Two police officers were right behind Simon.

Terri nodded a friendly hello to Simon, said, ‘Hi,’ then walked past them both and spoke directly to the officers.

‘I’m Terri Hudson, assistant curator of the museum. A painting has been stolen; I was held at gunpoint,’ hearing her mother’s gasp, she said, ‘then put into a cupboard.’ Turning to her mother, she added, ‘I wasn’t hurt,’ then back to the officer she had been addressing, ‘They came for a specific painting. They knew it was here, but, it must have taken them some time to find it. I heard them leave not that long ago.’

The second officer then asked, ‘Can you describe them, ma’am?’

‘Oh, absolutely!’ Terri answered.

THE PAST

Period 3

The year 1593 – Florence

It was time. Gina Romano had set everything up. The room, overlooking the piazza, was the living room of the modest dwelling where they lived.

Upon entry to the house from the piazza, a set of stairs led to the upstairs dwelling. Two bedrooms, a kitchen and a dining room were on the first floor, then a narrow staircase led to another bedroom at the back of the house, overlooking a garden below, and a living room at the front, a roomy space, even though the roof slanted down at little. It was on this floor that she had placed the girl, though not at first, but, since the child had turned ten years old, this upper level had been hers to live in. It was here, where two scrolls of paper, rolled and bound with a ribbon, lay on a low table. It was here, in one of four chairs, that Gina sat, waiting.

She heard footsteps, then, bounding into the room, she came.

Her long red hair was flowing, her face shiny and bright, her dark green eyes full of life and excitement. The dress was made of a dark green material.

She smiled broadly, happily.

It was her birthday.

‘Hello, Mother,’ she said, quickly coming over to Gina, who was now standing up, and the girl, already the same height as Gina, flung herself into her arms.

She then looked at the scrolls on the table and looked back at Gina.

‘Do tell me, Mother,’ she said, holding Gina’s hands, ‘what is the surprise you told me about this morning, that I had to wait all day for!’ She threw a mock scowl.