1636_The Vatican Sanction Read online

  O’Neill nodded. “Yes—or, not to gainsay the lady—it could be the first murder which somehow made the second feller bolt from his rooms sooner than he intended.”

  Ruy started rubbing his other temple. “You mean, that de Requesens feared that our investigation of the first murder would somehow point to him.”

  O’Neill shrugged. “Seems as likely an explanation as coincidence.”

  Sharon shook her head harder. “We’re wasting time. Your runner said that you’d found the house of the…er, master mason who was in charge of building the convent.” She glanced at the building behind them. “Is this it?”

  Ruy nodded. “It is.”

  “And what did he tell you?”

  O’Neill looked at Ruy, then muttered. “Sharon, I’m thinking it’s you as will do the best job at getting information from him.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Ruy extended a hand toward the door. “I believe you should see for yourself.”

  Chapter 25

  The moment Ruy swung open the cramped door to the small cellar, Sharon Nichols knew why she was the one they were counting on for answers.

  As she ducked in, her eyes confirmed what her nose had told her a few moments before. The foreman—a lifelong resident of Besançon by the improbable name of Parsifal Funker—sat tied in a chair. At first glance, there was no sign of what had killed him, but Sharon, moved partly by instinct, partly by deduction, went around to the rear of the chair-bound corpse and ran a finger along the base of his skull. Sure enough: there was a single, precise hole, upward-angled to slip under and past the occipital plate into the brain. “Instant death. No pain. Extremely professional Any other sign of damage to the body?”

  “Naught but a bit of old school convincing,” muttered O’Neill darkly, gesturing toward the corpse’s left hand. A splinter had been inserted under the nail of the index finger. It had gone in less than a quarter of an inch. If any blood had been spilled, it had been lapped up by the rats that had already dined extensively on the corpse’s entrails.

  Finan entered the room reluctantly, but without the same pallor that he had initially displayed when assisting her at the last crime scene. She gestured him over. “Light, please.”

  Having anticipated the need, he had already lit the lantern; he held it high.

  Sharon began the methodical process of cataloging the stage of death with her eyes and her fingers. “He’s been dead a while, but the rats have spoiled one of the best indicators: by chewing into his organs, they’ve released any trapped gases produced by decomposition. Tissue is desiccated, but hair, nails, and skin are not loose yet. Skin shows a lot of blistering, though—what parts the rats left—and it looks like fluid leaked from the nose and mouth, but I can’t be sure.”

  Sharon stood back from the corpse. “Significantly more than three days, probably not as long as two weeks. Given the temperature of the season and the humidity in this room, I’d say a week to ten days. But that is more by guess and by golly than science. I just don’t have the right tools to measure the cellular changes that might—might—give me a narrower time frame.”

  “Still,” mused Ruy, bearded chin in muscle-corded hand, “he was killed before access to Besançon was restricted. When many of the later clerics were still arriving.”

  She looked up at him. “Why is that important, do you think?”

  “It might not be. But consider what is coming to light with these last two corpses and if there are any connections to a greater plot. De Requesens lived here for almost a year and a half, so he was recruited to take part in—in whatever we are uncovering—opportunistically. He was an in situ resource who was reassigned to, or even impressed into, some relevant role. And now, here before us, we have evidence that other persons have either been ahead of us in gathering information pertinent to the hidden ways of this city, or who took this grisly step of denying us access to it.” Ruy stood in front of the corpse, hands on hips. “I think we may be sure that however the attack on the pope may be sprung, it will not be a surge of cutthroats attacking the procession from the mouth of a dark alley. This all bespeaks long and careful planning.”

  O’Neill was still looking at the dead man’s shrunken left hand. “Yes, but does it tell us if the man who killed de Requesens is the same one who did in this poor fellow?”

  Sharon shook her head. “No way of knowing. Not sure how he wound up in the chair, but there’s no sign that he struggled. If there was bruising, I can no longer tell, but there are no defensive wounds on his arms and nothing under his fingernails—except that splinter.”

  Which is what O’Neill was staring at. “It’s pure guesswork, but this killer might have been right-handed. But only if he was the same one who did the interrogating.”

  Sharon, who took considerable if unstated pride in her forensic acuity, was surprised and a bit annoyed that she had no idea what the Irishman was getting at. “Why do you think either might have been right-handed?”

  O’Neill nodded at the splinter under the left index finger. “In days past, I was present when our Spanish employers used methods like this to get information from prisoners. In general, the interrogator sits directly in front of the prisoner, and conducts the work on the hand directly across from the one he’ll use to do the business. So a right-handed interrogator tends to ply his trade on a prisoner’s left hand, and vice versa. As I said, a completely unscientific bit of guesswork.”

  “But reasonable,” Ruy said with a nod. “I have witnessed the same thing—and I have seen far more of Spain’s interrogators at work than you have, my friend.”

  Sharon turned toward Ruy, whose voice had fallen at the end of his comment. His eyes did not seem to be seeing outward, but were rendered sightless, probably by looking inward at old scenes conjured up by his remark. She suddenly wondered if he was so fey and playful most of the time because he had always been so, or because he had turned to it as a means of remaining lighthearted and wholly engaged in each passing moment, lest dark memories overtake him from behind.

  “Well,” she said, “whether or not the man with the knife was also the man asking the questions, it’s pretty clear he was a hardened killer.”

  Ruy seemed to rise back to the surface of the world around him, and then smiled sadly. “That phrase has far more emphatic meaning in your time, dear one. Here, most killers are, as you say, hardened. We see so much more death, after all. If I recall correctly, in your time, only a fraction of the people who consumed meat ever saw the animals slaughtered, let alone reared the creature from the moment it was born or hatched. Still, I take your meaning. This is a man who is well-practiced in killing, judging from the surety of the stroke.”

  Sharon frowned. “As sure as the stab to the heart that killed de Requesens. It’s tempting to think that they were done by the same man.”

  “Tempting, yes, but if, as Owen points out, the interrogator was also the murderer, then there is some suggestion that the killer here was right- not left-handed. And if all this is evidence of a deeper plot, then it seems quite reasonable that there may be two professional killers plying their trade in Besançon. Or more.”

  O’Neill stepped away from the corpse briskly; his tone was sharp, annoyed: “Maybe. Possibly. Hypothetically. Seemingly. Suggestive of. The uncertainty of this work is enough to drive a man mad. Give me a battlefield any day.”

  Sharon suspected he wasn’t speaking figuratively. “That’s a shame, since I think you’ve got a gift for it. After all, the two of you tracked him down.” She stared at the corpse. “By the way, how did you locate him?”

  O’Neill almost spat. “Oh, yes, there was another jolly bit of sleuthing.”

  Ruy folded his hands. “Mother Thérèse of the Carmelites was the source of the information.”

  Sharon knew that evasive tone. “Doesn’t sound like she shared it too gladly.”

  “Not initially, but we were very persuasive.”

  “‘Very persuasive?’” O’Neill repeated. “S
o that’s the new way we say ‘bullying a nun’ these days?” Owen seemed to be considering a punch at the stone-lined walls of the cellar.

  Sharon left her eyebrows raised as she turned back to Ruy. “What kind of bullying are we talking about?”

  Ruy smoothed his mustachios meticulously, so she knew there was some grade-A fast talk coming her way. “My Gaelic friend is succumbing to the poetic impulse of his people to embroider a humble tale into one of greater magnitude.”

  “Not by much,” O’Neill grumbled.

  “We simply wanted a detailed account of the construction of the convent.”

  “And that required bullying…for what reason?”

  Ruy folded his hands in a philosopher’s pose. “It seems that in the early years of the convent, before Mother Thérèse became the prioress, there were rumors of…laxity.”

  “Ruy, are you saying that the nuns…that they…well…?”

  O’Neill’s face was red as he interrupted. “Yes, that is exactly what he is saying.”

  Ruy glanced carefully at Sharon. “It is not I who said it, dearest of my heart. And understandably, the mother superior did not want to admit it. But Archbishop de Rey had intimated that such had been the case before her arrival.”

  “Ruy, I am waiting to hear what this has to do with a dead man.” She gestured to the body in the chair.

  It was O’Neill who answered, his voice bitter, his eyes aimed hard at the wall. “This poor sod was a master stonemason, and from 1619 on, was what you might call the foreman of the gang that was setting the interior stone. That would have included ensuring that the tunnel from Palais Granvelle remained functional, as well as seeing to the creation of any new passages. And it is rumored that one such was created to facilitate—access—between the convent and the Benedictines nearby.”

  Sharon nodded slowly, looked away. For all his travels to many countries and familiarity with court politics, Owen Roe O’Neill had harbored a doggedly idealistic view of the men and women who had taken vows of chastity to devote themselves to the Church. But ever since going to Rome to rescue Urban last year, it had become increasingly difficult for him to cling to those notions, and he experienced each disappointment as if a scab was being torn off a just-healed wound. It reminded her of the crisis of conscience she had witnessed in some of her Catholic friends back up-time, when the pedophile accusations began accumulating in the Nineties. When it got to the point where no rational person could explain it away anymore, they became increasingly myopic and defensive, angry and bitter at the Church, and yet unwilling to hear anyone criticize it. Now, as then, Sharon resolved to give Owen his own space; there was really nothing else to be done.

  Ruy’s eyes were sad as he, too, looked away from his friend. “Naturally, the prioress was unwilling to talk of these…irregularities in the early years of the convent. I think the only reason she agreed was because the mother superior who had overseen the work is now long deceased. Unfortunately for us, the current prioress arrived at the very end of the construction, and so had little knowledge of who had been in charge of it. Happily, she offered to contact the stonemasons guild, which did in fact keep records on the members who had been retained, at least those who were masters. Just before supper yesterday, she sent a list of names to us. A short list, since many have gone to their reward since then. And of all those names, this fellow was the only one who would have overseen the construction of more tunnels, or who would have been responsible for making safe and permanent passages through any buried rooms of earlier buildings. There was another fellow whose name they had not recorded, but whom they remembered: a local mute who never rose beyond journeyman but who was known for his ability with tight or hidden passages. And, being illiterate as well, he was as much prized for the assured confidentiality of his work.

  “Owen and I resolved to come here together this morning, but I was called away to prepare the young Swiss for their induction into the Pontifical Guard on Saturday. By the time I got here, Owen had already tried knocking. He was told by the neighbors that poor Parsifal was something of a recluse, but given the urgency of the matter, he and his men forced the door and ultimately found this sad scene.”

  Sharon nodded. “So that’s what you meant when you said that whoever killed this man was preventing us from getting necessary information. Because without him, we don’t know the mute’s name or where we might find him.”

  Ruy nodded. “That is part of it, certainly.”

  Sharon frowned. “Part of it?”

  O’Neill nodded grimly toward the corpse’s tortured hand again. “Whoever sent Parsifal Funker to his Maker didn’t just walk into his house and kill him. They had a chat with him first. They wanted to learn something. Just like us.”

  Sharon felt a chill go down her back. “The mute.”

  Ruy nodded. “We cannot be certain, of course. Funker may have known other things of value to his killer. But if the apparent plot to attack the pope involves avoiding our security by moving through long forgotten tunnels, then those assassins would also have wanted to find the mute. First, to learn what hidden passages might best serve their needs, and second—”

  “And second, to kill him,” Sharon finished. “So, can we find other masons who may have worked with this mute, either on the convent, or elsewhere?”

  O’Neill nodded. “We might. They might even admit to remembering him. And if we’re very lucky, they might even know where we can find him. Which is why I sent for six runners, who should be waiting outside, by now.”

  Ruy smiled reassuringly at Sharon. “We shall provide each one with the name of a master or journeyman stonemason with whom Mr. Funker was long associated. They will search them out, inquire after the mute and any others that might have known him, and continue to follow the leads.”

  “Until they run out,” O’Neill added darkly.

  Sharon wiped her hands and moved toward the door. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  Chapter 26

  Pedro Dolor had awakened with a most unfamiliar sensation: indecision. As he cleaned his weapons, and then laid them out—those he carried, those he kept concealed close at hand, those in the pack with which he would flee if all was lost—he continued to grapple with the question that had whispered to him in his usually dreamless sleep. Should he masquerade as de Requesens and contact Borja in an attempt to gain some insight into the attack plan, or at least the weapons and equipment that would be furnished to the Swiss?

  It was a step Dolor had never envisioned taking, simply because if handled incorrectly, it could compromise Rome’s assumption that it was still communicating with Javier de Requesens y Ercilla. In that event, it was possible that the attack upon the pope would be launched prematurely, or cancelled. And so Dolor would not only have failed to carry out Olivares’ orders to ensure that Urban was killed and that the blame fell squarely upon Borja, but would have ruined his own plans to slowly but inexorably lead Madrid into a cascade of mounting international blunders.

  Dolor had to understand Borja’s attack plan so he could provide both the needed support and yet not get so enmeshed in the combat that he could not withdraw in a timely fashion, thereby leaving Borja’s men to be captured, interrogated, and so, point fingers toward Rome.

  But if Dolor did not gamble everything now, he might have insufficient information and time to achieve his delicately intertwined objectives later. He thought about it all the way through breakfast, chewing very slowly as he did. It was a most difficult choice.

  Borja saved him the trouble of making the decision. The remains of breakfast were not yet cold when the radio began clacking interminably. Rome had learned from a radio-equipped Spanish agent in Basel that the colloquium had already commenced. A darkly imperious question followed: was this in fact true?

  Dolor sighed as he sent his affirmative reply, dreading the deluge he was certain would follow.

  Borja did not disappoint him. A torrent of complaint and near-abuse ensued, which, despite i
ts many creative variations, all boiled down to this: why had de Requesens not thought to so inform Rome, or gather any pertinent information to send along?

  After leading with the effusive and ornate apologies that were Javier’s rather revolting habit, Dolor replied with a most reasonable explanation: Because, from the outset, those had never been an explicit or implicit part of his duties. Indeed, according to the transcripts of what he had been sent, Javier had been obliquely chastised on several occasions when his reports had become too detailed, or concerned matters that were mostly tangential to his mission. Dolor felt fairly sure that had been Maculani’s contribution.

  However, the answer was unquestionably all Borja. After several transmissions of extraordinary length in which the simmering cardinal implausibly explained how de Requesens’ silence on other matters worthy of report had been a subtle and sadly failed test of his perspicacity and initiative, Borja began sending a series of one line transmissions that enumerated all the matters of interest which Javier might have reported upon, and which he now should.

  The series continued to steadily accumulate over the course of the next two hours. The radio would clatter briefly, fall silent for a few minutes, and then sputter to life again. And again and again and again. Dolor watched it, and almost stopped paying attention to the text of each message in favor of perceiving the subtext of the growing list: it was a view into the mind of a man who could not admit that he was wrong. It was the inner voice of a megalomaniac who would go to any lengths, including explanations that were fatuous marvels of contorted and tortuous invention, to prove to a distant underling that Gaspar de Borja y Velasco was never in error. Because in doing so, and by recieving no rebuttals in reply, the cardinal secretly took comfort in believing he had even proved it to himself.

  After a long day of intermittent and obsequious acknowledgements of Borja’s utterly ridiculous demands for detailed information on the attendees of the colloquium, their activities, and the probable beginning of a Papal Council, Dolor sent Giulio out to gather a few of the facts that could be gleaned simply by listening to talk in any one of the taverns within a three-minute walk of the palace. Then, when he estimated that Borja’s tone was beginning to suggest that the cardinal had not only fully vented his spleen, but had become bored by flogging his subordinate over the airwaves, Dolor slipped in his own crucial question, albeit indirectly. Gasquet, he sent, was becoming restless now that the Swiss had arrived yet remained uncooperative about informing him when the weapons and plan of attack might be forthcoming. Furthermore, the leaders among the Swiss were using Gasquet’s dependence upon them to undermine his authority as the designated leader of the attack.