‘Wait,’ Elisabetta said. ‘We’re not finished.’
There were two more sheets in Flavia’s file.
The first was a memo to the file from a physician, Dr Giuseppe Falcone, addressed to no one but marked ‘Hand-delivered, 6 June 1985.’
On the request of the Vatican I examined the patient, Flavia Celestino, who is under the care of Dr Motta at the Gemelli Hospital. She is in serious condition with diarrhea, vomiting, anemia, liver and kidney dysfunction and periods of disorientation. My differential diagnosis includes hemolytic uremic syndrome, viral encephalomyelopathy, amyloidosis, and intoxication with heavy metals or arsenic. The latter would have to be my leading suspicion. I have spoken with Dr Motta. He informs me the arsenic and toxicology tests are negative and while surprised I have to accept what he says. I believe he has considered all relevant possibilities but at this stage there seems to be little to be done for her.
‘She was poisoned,’ Elisabetta whispered. Now she made no attempt to staunch her tears and Tremblay looked on impotently.
The last page was a copy of the death certificate, dated 10 June 1985, listing Flavia’s cause of death as kidney and liver failure and noting that a post-mortem was not requested by the coroner.
‘I’m sorry,’ Tremblay said, touching her hand. ‘But we have to find the Dee letter.’
He placed the file box back in its place and with long strides backtracked rapidly toward the Tower. Elisabetta followed, her body and mind so numb that she could hardly feel her feet against the floor.
Going up the stairs, Tremblay cursed his weak constitution but forced himself to keep going until they’d reached the second floor of the Tower. At the landing Elisabetta was worried that he might pass out from air-hunger.
‘It’s this way,’ he gasped.
Here in the Archive of the Secretariat of State, they passed through room after room of seventeenth-century walnut cabinets. Tremblay had written the file number on a scrap of paper and he referred to it as he searched the rooms. He finally found it, high up. Facing the tall library ladder he said, ‘I’m so puffed out I don’t trust myself.’
Elisabetta climbed the ladder and pulled open the door he was pointing at. He called out the file number to her. She found the box.
After climbing down she laid the file on top of one of the low cabinets in the center of the room and let Tremblay open the box.
It was full of parchments tied in a ribbon, all from the sixteenth century.
With a practiced eye he scanned the Latin, French, English and German scripts, looking for the one he wanted. Two-thirds of the way through the pile he stopped dead at a modern sheet of paper with a handwritten note in ballpoint ink.
1577 Letter from John Dee to Ottaviano Mascherino, removed to a personal collection. Signed, R.A. 17 May 1985
‘Who is R.A?’ Elisabetta asked.
Tremblay shook his head sadly. ‘I have no idea, but by God I’m going to find out. Let’s go. There’s nothing more for us to do here. I have work to do. I’ll contact you as soon as I have something. Please, say nothing of this to anyone.’
The phone rang in the librarian’s office.
‘This is Signorina Mattera in the Secret Archives. Yes, Your Excellency. Thank you for getting back to me. I wanted to inform you that Father Tremblay requested access to a red-flagged file today. It was regarding a woman who did research here in the 1980s, a Flavia Celestino. Yes, Your Excellency, per protocol, he was granted access and now, per protocol, I have duly informed you.’
TWENTY-TWO
ELISABETTA UNLOCKED THE front door of her father’s apartment and blinked in confusion. Zazo was in the kitchen.
‘Where were you?’ he said with exasperation. ‘Haven’t I told you to stay put?’
‘I had an appointment.’ She didn’t want to lie but she said, ‘At the school.’
Zazo started to lecture her, ‘Elisabetta …’
‘What are you doing here?’ she countered. ‘How come you’re not in uniform?’
As he told her what had happened Elisabetta’s tears flowed again. ‘This is all my fault.’
‘How is it your fault?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘It just is.’
Zazo laughed. ‘You used to be so intelligent. What happened? Stop crying and make me some coffee.’
Later, while she washed their cups and saucers, Elisabetta asked Zazo if he wanted to go to church with her.
‘No more churches for me for a while,’ he said. ‘But I’ll walk you there.’
It was one of those wind-whipped afternoons where dense cumulus clouds blocked the sun intermittently, turning the light from yellow to gray and back to yellow again. Zazo couldn’t decide whether to keep his sunglasses on or not. He gave up finally and stuffed them into the inside pocket of his jacket where they got entangled with the phone records.
‘These were my undoing,’ he said, waving the papers at his sister.
‘Have you looked at them?’
‘No. Maybe later tonight or tomorrow. Whenever I sober up.’
‘Please don’t drink,’ Elisabetta said.
‘Are you a nun or a Puritan?’ her brother joked. ‘Of course I’m going to drink. A good long toast to the end of my career and to the new Pope, whoever he may be.’
They stopped at a corner, waiting for the crossing light to turn green. ‘I’m sure they’ll just give you a slap on the wrist. Zazo, I’m so cross with you. You couldn’t leave it alone, could you?’
‘No, I couldn’t.’
‘Me neither,’ Elisabetta confessed as she started across the street at the green signal.
Zazo caught up with her. ‘What did you do?’
‘I called the University at Ulm and found an old colleague of Bruno Ottinger’s. It turns out that Ottinger was a mean old fellow, a right-winger.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Nothing else too remarkable. He didn’t have many friends. The initial K didn’t mean anything to the colleague. Nor did Christopher Marlowe.’
‘Is Papa still working on the numbers?’
Elisabetta nodded.
‘Here’s hoping he’ll have more luck than with Goldbach,’ Zazo said dismissively.
‘Don’t be mean.’
Suddenly he said, ‘I’m really going to miss you.’
She gave him a tight-lipped smile, holding on to her composure. ‘I’m going to miss you too. And Papa. And Micaela. And my school.’
‘Then don’t go.’
‘It’s not my choice.’
‘Whose choice was it? It wasn’t God’s, you know.’
‘I don’t know whose decision it was but of course it was God’s choice.’
‘Someone wants you out of the way. It’s obvious, Elisabetta. First someone makes a call from your office to the newspapers, a call that gets you fired. Then you’re transferred a day after someone tries to kill you. This is not the hand of God. It’s the hand of man.’
The dome of the church came into sight.
‘Maybe we’ll find out the truth of this affair one day, maybe we won’t. What’s important for me is that I resume my life. If that’s in Africa, so be it.’
‘You know,’ Zazo said slyly, ‘the people you just mentioned won’t be the only ones who will miss you.’
‘Who else?’
‘Lorenzo.’
She stopped and stared at him.
‘He hasn’t said anything, of course,’ Zazo said, ‘but I can tell.’
‘But I’m a nun!’
‘Maybe so, but sometimes women leave the clergy. I can’t say that he’s thinking this, but I can see there’s something in his eyes. He’s my best friend.’ Zazo dropped his voice. ‘Next to Marco.’
‘Oh, Zazo.’
‘Let me tell you something else,’ her brother said, touching her black sleeve. An old woman with a shopping bag stopped to take in the scene of a nun and a young man having an intimate discussion on the street. Elisabetta smiled politely at her and she and Zazo began walking again. ‘I know why you became a nun.’