“We’re having a devil of a time getting a permanent coroner. But what can you expect? Coroners, like policemen, are civil servants. Very badly paid. You get what you pay for, except of course in my case, where my contribution far exceeds the paltry sum I’m paid, wouldn’t you say?”
“Absolutely,” I agreed. He smiled at me.
“Sorry. Totally lost it there, didn’t I?”
I decided I liked Tabone. He had a sense of humor, bizarre and occasionally brittle though it might be, and he didn’t seem to take me very seriously as a suspect, despite my involvement in the whole affair. He also didn’t seem to share his colleagues’ distrust of, and dislike for, foreigners.
“Is that all he said? The coroner, I mean. That Galea was stabbed with something sharp?”
“Just about. Well, one more thing. He estimated the time of death at about noon or one p.m. yesterday, give or take an hour or two. He bases this on the fact that rigor mortis had not yet set in, which it would normally start to do within five or six hours, and the fact that the last meal in Galea’s stomach—pardon the details here—was breakfast, bacon and eggs. The poor fellow didn’t get time for lunch before he expired.
“I expect this means that either Galea was killed in Rome wandering about the cargo area for some inexplicable reason, then stuffed in some furniture that just happened to be his, and which just happened to be heading for his new home in Malta, or alternatively that he and the murderer both stole on the cargo plane, and Galea was murdered mid-Atlantic. Perhaps—now here’s an idea—the pilot killed him, in a fit of rage because he was a stowaway. How likely do you think these alternatives might be? Ludicrous, would you say?” he asked contemptuously. “Maybe our loaner is getting into the embalming fluid in his desperation.
“But I suppose we must work with what we have, and it does give me ideas. I’d better check with the Italian authorities and the airline to see if Galea was on a flight to Rome. Not that I have much in the way of resources, of course. Most of my staff are on security detail.”
“Security? For what?”
“It’s not terribly well-known for security reasons, but our prime minister is hosting representatives from a number of Mediterranean nations next week. He wants to get Malta into the European Union. It’s an uphill battle, of course. The Opposition party opposes it. They think a little country like Malta will get swallowed up by the Union in one tiny bite and our economy will be ruined, and they may be right. Who’s to say really? I for sure have no idea whether it’s a good idea or not. In any event, the PM soldiers are on for the cause. He’s hoping to get the support of countries like Italy and Greece to get us into the Union. So he’ll wine and dine a few of them and see where it gets us.”
“Would these be people important enough to warrant an invitation to Martin Galea’s new house, would you say?” I asked.
He looked at me thoughtfully. “Interesting question, my dear Miss McClintoch. Very interesting question indeed.”
The rest of the day passed quietly enough, except for one very strange incident. After my meeting with Tabone, and reluctant to return to the house, I ventured by myself into Valletta. I needed to change some travelers’ checks into Maltese lire, and I had promised myself a return visit to St. John’s Co-Cathedral. Ostensibly, my reason for going there was the painting I’d heard was in the cathedral museum and had missed on my previous visit, a Caravaggio, and to see more of the cathedral, unhurried by Anthony’s relentless quest for buildings designed by Gerolamo Cassar. The real reason for going there at this particular moment, however, was, I think, an idea that a visit to this magnificent place of worship might put the horror of the previous day in perspective somehow.
The sun was shining brightly when I went into the dim interior. Once again, I was amazed at how every inch of the interior was ornamented in some way. I found the painting I wanted to see, the quite magnificent “Beheading of St. John,” and then I just wandered around some more. A large tour group had left the cathedral shortly after I arrived, and I had the place more or less to myself.
In the little chapel to the left of the main altar was a staircase that led down to the cathedral crypt. The guidebook Anthony had purchased for me indicated that visits to the crypt were only possible by writing for an appointment well in advance, something I had obviously not done. On my previous visit, the gate at the bottom of the steps had been held shut with a padlock and chain, allowing only a tantalizing glimpse of the crypt through the gate. This time, however, I could see that the padlock was open. I don’t know whether it was the lure of the unlocked gate, the thought of seeing something usually forbidden, or perhaps a bit of an obsession, recently acquired, with the hereafter, but after looking carefully about me, I went quickly and quietly down the steps and let myself in.
There is something about crypts that demands silence, the coolness, darkness, and damp so akin, perhaps, to death. I walked very quietly into the depths, trying not to disturb the inhabitants, several of whom, I noticed, had been Grand Masters of the Knights of St. John, in their final resting place. For a moment or two I thought I was alone, until in the very back, at a dead end, I came upon the Great White Hunter himself, crouched low examining one of the tombs very intently. I don’t know why I was surprised. GWH was where he always was when I saw him, hanging about in the presence, here literally, of the Knights. Surprised I was, however, and I obviously startled him. Perhaps he had been concentrating so hard he hadn’t heard me at first. When he did, he turned, looking at me as much as anything like a cornered animal, fear in his eyes.
“I’ll give you thirty percent,” he said.
“Thirty percent?” I said, mystified.
“All right, then. Forty.”
I just looked at him.
“Fifty/fifty. I’ll split whatever we get with you. It’s the best I can do. I have expenses, you know.” His voice was a hoarse gasp.
“What are you talking about?” I exclaimed.
He looked at me intently, and then straightened up, keeping his eyes on me at all times.
“Then it’s not you,” he said.
In my confusion, I took this to be an existential query of some sort and replied, “Of course it’s me. Who else would I be?”
He lunged past me, pushing me roughly against a stone tomb and hurtled up the stairs. I heard his footsteps receding quickly above me. I stood there alone in the crypt for several minutes, listening to some water drop against damp stones, my shoulder aching from the contact with the wall, totally baffled by the encounter.
It would be some time before the significance of this event became clear to me.
SEVEN
But here, what is this? Shipwrecked soul, cast upon My shores. Paul, they call you, Saul of Tarsus, follower of the Nazarene. I see Cathedrals rising from My rocky soil. My strength ebbs before it, the Word that rings across the ages.
Love thy neighbor. Subdued, silent, but not defeated, I remain.
They will worship Me again.
The following day the enormity of what had happened finally caught up with me. Until then, I had been reasonably pleased with the way I’d been holding up. I did not wish to think I was becoming inured to the sight of violent death— this was not, regrettably, the first time in my life I’d discovered a murder victim—but by and large I had felt rather untouched by events. I knew that the planets were out of alignment somehow, but I merely sensed a kind of detached surprise. Indeed, I had put my feelings about finding Galea roughly on a par with my perplexing encounter with the Great White Hunter.