The Forgotten Painting Read online

  ‘Well, thank you’, replied Celia, acknowledging the compliment. ‘I’ve read all of your books.’

  ‘You have? As a fan perhaps?’

  ‘Purely professional’, replied Celia, enjoying the banter.

  ‘Pity. Just when I thought …’

  ‘Don’t look so disappointed. You just told me what you liked about me. Allow me to tell you what I like about you—’

  ‘Another drink?’ interrupted Jack, a little embarrassed.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘You are completely unaffected by your fame; you've managed to retain your persona; you speak your mind and don’t pander to the media. Very refreshing.’

  ‘Wow! That’s direct’, said Jack, laughing. ‘You reckon you can take the boy out of the outback, but you can’t take the outback out of the boy? Is that it?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘My publicist would be disappointed to hear that. I always get into trouble with my wardrobe. She thinks I dress like a country bumpkin and makes me buy stuff I don’t like … Boss or Armani; it just isn’t me.’

  ‘Don’t listen to her. It’s part of your charm; trust me’, interjected Celia. ‘You should have seen the people at the auction this morning when you spoke. You had them in the palm of your hand; hanging on your every word. Not many can pull this off. A bit like the news conference at Heathrow you gave with Dr Rosen after you returned from Somalia in the Time Machine’s plane. That was quite a show.’

  ‘You were there?’

  ‘I was. It was one of the most exciting media appearances I’ve been to; like a movie, but without a script. You are a born storyteller.’

  Jack held up his hand. ‘Enough! No more compliments, please. Let’s have dinner; I’m starving’, he said, laughing. ‘Country appetite, I’m afraid. Another one of my failings.’

  Celia put down her glass, her eyes sparkling. ‘Let’s do that.’

  Jack ordered two cognacs and sat back in his comfortable chair after the waiter had cleared away the dinner plates. Enjoying the ambience in the elegant dining room and the company of the exciting woman sitting opposite, he began to relax.

  For a journalist pursuing a story, Celia had been very restrained. Not once had she mentioned the Imperial Crypt or the sarcophagus with the painting. Instead, she had engaged in entertaining, light-hearted conversation during dinner, and left it up to Jack to raise the subject when he was ready.

  Smart girl, thought Jack, appreciating her tact. ‘You are right about the storyteller bit,’ he began, holding his warm brandy balloon with both hands, ‘that’s me. So, let me tell you a story about a lost painting, a coffin key and a remarkable boy with psychic powers—’

  ‘Young Tristan?’ interrupted Celia. ‘As in The Disappearance of Anna Popov and The Hidden Genes of Professor K?’

  ‘The very same’, replied Jack, impressed. ‘You have read my books!’

  ‘You have a special bond with that boy, don’t you?’

  ‘Very perceptive of you. Yes, I have. He’s without doubt one of the most remarkable teenagers I’ve come across. And besides, he saved my life in Somalia.’

  ‘Ah yes, during the sinking of the Calypso, if I remember correctly, the Blackburn flagship. It’s all in your book.’

  ‘Yes. The Hidden Genes of Professor K; spot on. If you want to file your story tonight, I better get on with it’, said Jack. ‘It all happened during that impromptu concert in the Imperial Crypt that Benjamin Krakowski mentioned at the auction. It’s a remarkable story. As you know, I’m a strong believer in destiny, and destiny was certainly at play that night, no doubt about it. It’s the only way I can explain what happened. Let me tell you about it, and you can judge for yourself.’

  A COFFIN KEY AND A BOY WITH PSYCHIC POWERS:

  IMPERIAL CRYPT, VIENNA: 2012

  ‘Everything is ready, Herr Krakowski’, said Dr Gruber, waiting for his famous guest backstage. Krakowski had just completed the final curtain call to a standing ovation, after performing his second violin concerto at the Musikverein, Vienna’s most famous concert venue for classical music.

  ‘So am I’, replied Krakowski, carefully placing his famous violin, the Empress, back in its case. He was very fond of Dr Gruber. With the curious title of Oberregierungsrat, Dr Gruber was in charge of some obscure department for the preservation of monuments in Austria, and had helped Krakowski and his legal team to cut through the legendary Austrian red tape before. But that wasn’t all. Highly regarded and well connected in government circles, he was also a master tactician who knew how to get what he wanted.

  ‘I have made arrangements for us to remain in the crypt after your performance’, said Dr Gruber, lowering his voice. I have explained everything to the custodian and spoke to him and his superior about the Francis diary and your search. Cooperation is assured and permission from the relevant authorities has been obtained; I have the necessary permits with me.’

  ‘I’m indebted to you’, said Krakowski, closing his violin case.

  ‘It’s the least we can do in return for your generosity.’

  Dr Gruber realised that to have a world-famous artist like Krakowski perform a musical tribute to Sisi, one of Austria’s best-loved monarchs, at her final resting place—the Imperial Crypt—was quite a coup. In Austria, something like this counted for a lot. The publicity value alone was immeasurable, and to have the president of Austria attend the occasion was certainly the icing on the cake. In Austria, reputation was everything, and for a senior public servant like Dr Gruber to pull off something like this would elevate his reputation to enviable heights.

  ‘Your guests will meet us at the crypt’, said Dr Gruber, leading the way to the exit. ‘Everything has been arranged; it isn’t far.’

  Jack turned to Tristan and pointed to the entrance leading down into the crypt, guarded by two uniformed policemen. ‘Remember what I told you about this place?’ said Jack.

  Tristan looked at him and smiled. ‘Don’t fret; I know what it is. I’m ready.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ said Countess Kuragin, linking arms with Jack, ‘he’ll be fine.’

  Jack already had second thoughts about asking Tristan to come along. Fully aware of the boy’s psychic powers, he had hoped that Tristan could somehow assist in the search. He knew the boy was wired differently, and had seen him in action many times. There was no doubt that his late mother’s gift had resurfaced in the boy, only stronger. Jack still remembered what she had told him about her son: ‘He can hear the whisper of angels and glimpse eternity …’

  Since the death of his parents, Tristan had been living with Countess Kuragin in her chateau in France. Eternally grateful for the return of her lost daughter, Anna, and the role Tristan’s mother had played in her rescue, the countess had taken the orphaned Tristan into her home, and her heart. At first, she hadn’t been too pleased about Jack’s suggestion. But when Krakowski personally invited her to attend the concert in Vienna with Tristan, she had reluctantly agreed.

  Dr Rosen fell in beside Jack. ‘You look worried’, she said.

  ‘It’s this place. It’s spooky; you’ll see’, whispered Jack. ‘This whole affair is weird to say the least. Looking for a lost painting hidden inside someone’s coffin … a little grotesque, don’t you think? Perhaps we should just forget it all and walk away.’

  Dr Rosen stopped and turned to face Jack. ‘What? Are you serious?’ she said. ‘That’s not like you, Jack. Why the cold feet suddenly?’

  ‘Don’t know…’

  As they gathered at the entrance to the chapel, Dr Rosen glanced again at the brochure Jack had given her earlier, it read:

  The Imperial Crypt is divided into several separate vaults. At the entrance is the large Leopold Vault followed by the Karl Vault, which leads into the Maria Theresia Vault with the spectacular double sarcophagus of Austria’s most famous empress and her husband. The sarcophagi of Empress Elisabeth—Sisi—her husband,
Emperor Franz Joseph, and her son, Crown Prince Rudolf are in the Franz Joseph Vault next to the crypt chapel.

  With standing room only, the hand-picked guests—the cream of the Austrian establishment—were waiting in the chapel for the performance to begin.

  A ripple of excitement washed over the guests as Dr Gruber stepped forward. ‘Mr President, distinguished guests, ladies and gentlemen,’ began Dr Gruber, ‘it gives me great pleasure to welcome you here this evening to a very special occasion rarely seen in a solemn place like this. Mr Benjamin Krakowski has kindly agreed to perform a special tribute to Empress Elisabeth, our beloved Sisi, right here in front of her final resting place. We know she loved Mozart, and Mr Krakowski will play some of her favourite melodies for us in her memory.’

  A round of subdued applause began, but Dr Gruber held up his hand. ‘However, there is another very touching, quite personal twist to all this. We are about to witness a piece of history. Mr Krakowski has brought his famous Stradivarius, the Empress, with him tonight. Most of you would be familiar with the violin’s turbulent history, which is closely linked to Sisi, the Hungarian Esterhazy family, and the Holocaust. It is the centrepiece of Jack Rogan’s best-selling book, Dental Gold and Other Horrors, and its story has touched millions of readers around the world.’

  Dr Gruber paused and pointed to Jack standing at the front. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are fortunate indeed to have Mr Rogan here with us this evening to witness another chapter in the violin’s history.’

  More subdued applause echoed around the chapel.

  ‘In fact,’ continued Dr Gruber, warming to his subject, ‘the instrument is named after the Empress—Sisi—herself, and it is therefore most befitting that it should pay tribute to her here tonight with sublime music played by a virtuoso.’ Dr Gruber turned to Krakowski standing next to him. ‘Maestro, please …’

  Krakowski walked up to Empress Elisabeth’s sarcophagus and bowed. Then, lifting the violin to his chin, he turned around, faced his spellbound audience and closed his eyes. This moment of total concentration was how he focused before every performance. Crypt or concert hall, an audience was an audience. For a moment there was total silence in the chapel, all eyes on the man standing motionless in front of the empress’ sarcophagus. Then slowly, the bow touched the strings and the first notes of a sublime Mozart adagio drifted eerily across the burial chamber, breaking the deathly silence with Mozart’s genius.

  Standing between Countess Kuragin and Jack, Tristan couldn’t take his eyes off Krakowski as the maestro began to play. At first, he was transported by the music. Soon, however, the music faded away and all he could hear was the whisper of voices closing in from all sides. Tristan pressed his trembling hands against his ears, but the voices wouldn’t go away. Instead, they were drilling into his tortured brain with messages he couldn’t understand. Countess Kuragin noticed Tristan’s distress and gently put her arm around him. This seemed to calm the boy, and the disturbing voices faded away. Feeling better, he looked gratefully at the countess as he remembered his mother’s warning: 'Be careful; glimpsing eternity comes at a price’.

  After the performance, the president thanked Krakowski personally, and the visitors began to leave. A beaming Dr Gruber then ushered Krakowski and his guests into the New Crypt behind the chapel, and asked them to wait.

  ‘That was quite something, Benjamin’, said Dr Rosen, kissing Krakowski on the cheek.

  ‘I’ve never played in a place like this. Very moving …’

  Standing next to Krakowski, the countess looked at Tristan with a worried look on her face. The boy looked pale and shaken. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked, frowning. ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘Glimpsing eternity comes at a price’, replied Tristan, repeating his mother’s warning.

  Jack overheard the remark. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘I heard voices; coming from everywhere …’

  Jack wasn’t surprised by the answer. ‘Could you understand what they were saying?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Were they angry?’

  ‘No; urgent.’

  ‘How curious.’

  ‘This is Brother Balthazar’, said Dr Gruber, introducing the custodian of the Imperial Crypt Jack had met before. ‘He has kindly agreed to assist us in our search. He has considered the description in the Francis diary and has come up with a suggestion. Brother …’

  The custodian appeared polite and cooperative, but his body language told a different story. It was obvious he wasn’t pleased about the unwelcome intrusion into his domain, and didn’t agree with disturbing the dead, however compelling the reason.

  ‘The diary talks about a simple sarcophagus standing on a podium decorated with …’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, that’s where the description ends abruptly. There are several sarcophagi fitting this description, but you must understand, we cannot just go from sarcophagus to sarcophagus and try to open—’

  ‘We understand completely’, Jack cut in, trying to placate the custodian and smooth his ruffled feathers.

  Mollified, Brother Balthazar turned to Jack. ‘However, the coffin key could help’, he said. ‘Have you brought it with you?’

  Jack reached into his pocket, pulled out the elaborate key and handed it to him. Standing in the shadows, Tristan was watching carefully. Then suddenly, the voices were back, but more subdued than before. One voice in particular, a woman speaking French, became more prominent. It was as if the coffin key had somehow triggered something…

  Slowly, Tristan walked over to Brother Balthazar and held out his hand. ‘May I?’ he asked. The custodian looked at him, surprised, and handed him the key.

  *

  Jack paused and looked at Celia, who was hanging on his every word. She had her writing pad on the table in front of her and was busily taking notes. ‘Another drink?’ asked Jack, pointing to the empty brandy balloons.

  ‘No thanks. My head’s spinning already just from the story! Come on, Jack, keeping me in suspense like this isn’t fair. Tell me what happened!’

  ‘Such impatience’, sighed Jack, and ordered another cognac for himself.

  ‘Well, Tristan took the key from the custodian and began to walk slowly from sarcophagus to sarcophagus. He appeared to have entered a trance, oblivious to everything around him except the coffin key, which he held up to his ear like a phone—’

  ‘Communicating with the dead?’ interrupted Celia, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, but you weren’t there.’

  ‘Come on, Jack …’

  ‘I will tell you what happened, and you can make up your own mind.’

  ‘Sorry; I better have that drink now.’

  Jack pushed his brandy across the table towards Celia. ‘Here, have mine; you’ll need it. But back to the crypt …’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘’Tristan had us under his spell, especially the custodian, who crossed himself several times and began to pray. Silently, we followed Tristan from vault to vault, from sarcophagus to sarcophagus, like a funeral procession. Each time he entered a new chamber, he held up the key, looked around, and listened. Then suddenly, he stopped, and for what seemed an eternity, stared at a simple sarcophagus in front of him.’

  Jack paused again, and ordered another drink.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Jack; get on with it,’ urged Celia, ‘or I’ll miss my deadline!’

  ‘The sarcophagus stood on a podium and was decorated with an inscription plate and ivy wreaths, symbolising eternity’, continued Jack. ‘Lionhead handles, a symbol for the resurrection of the dead, were the only other features of note. After a while, Tristan walked up to the sarcophagus and put the key on top of it. “This is the one”, he said, and stepped back.’

  ‘What happened next?’ demanded Celia. ‘This is worse than pulling teeth!’

  ‘The custodian put the key in the lock—a perfect fit—and unlocked the sarcophagus. I then helped him open
the heavy lid.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘As Benjamin told us at the auction, we found the painting—intact—resting on top of a wooden coffin that was draped in black velvet and gold. The sarcophagus belonged to Empress Marie-Louise, the wife of Napoleon I, who died in 1847 in Parma.’

  ‘Unbelievable!’ exclaimed Celia. She closed her notepad, reached for her handbag and stood up. ‘You have to excuse me. I really must dash!’

  ‘Of course’, said Jack and stood up as well. ‘I’ll call you a cab.’

  Outside the hotel, Jack opened the back door of a cab and stepped aside.

  ‘Thanks for a marvellous evening, Jack’, said Celia, and kissed Jack on the cheek.

  ‘You are most welcome. Aren’t you just a little bit curious to find out who bought the painting?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Of course I am. I tried my best to get it out of the auctioneer. No chance! He didn’t give anything away.’

  ‘I’m not surprised’, said Jack, laughing.

  Celia turned around to face Jack. ‘You know, don’t you?’ she said, her voice sounding hoarse.

  ‘Aha.’

  ‘Now you tell me! You—’

  ‘I’m meeting the proud new owner for lunch tomorrow’, replied Jack calmly. ‘You can come with me if you like.’

  For a moment, Celia just stared at Jack, disbelief and exasperation clouding her face. 'Are you serious?’

  ‘Deadly.’

  ‘You’re on!’

  ‘I’ll pick you up at twelve-thirty.’

  ‘Okay. I’m staying at the Tower Thistle.’

  ‘How opportune.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Celia, climbing into the cab.

  ‘Because it’s very close to where we’re going.’

  ‘I don’t believe this’, mumbled Celia.

  ‘I hope you write something nice about me.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘See you tomorrow’, said Jack, and closed the door of the cab.