James Acton 03 - Broken Dove (3 page)

“What is it?” asked Nicola.

“I’m not sure what to do. Father Granger does this, I’ve never done it before.”

“We’re in here because of you.
You
better do it.” Nicola gently pushed on Eugenio’s back with his elbow, his own hands occupied by a steaming bowl of water for the morning ablutions.

Eugenio nodded.
You opened the door. This is now your duty.
He took a deep breath and stepped deeper into the chambers, his eyes on the two-tone checkered floor. With as much confidence as he could muster, he walked toward the small, humble bed. “Good morning, Your Holiness.”

“Good morning.”

Eugenio froze and Nicola ran into him from behind. Eugenio heard, then felt, the water lap against then over the side of the bowl, the water dampening his robes. He looked at His Holiness, something he had failed to do moments before. He was propped up in bed, a slight smile drawn across his face. “You’re late.”

There was no reproach. No malice. No criticism. Just a statement of fact.

Eugenio stepped forward. “I’m terribly sorry, Your Holiness. But—” He wasn’t sure what to say. It felt like tattling.

“What is it, my son?”

The voice was gentle, calming.
What did you expect?
He had never heard His Holiness raise his voice. Eugenio was sure he did on occasion; there were enough maddening things happening in the world every day that His Holiness must get angry at something. After all, he may be the head of the largest church on Earth, but he was also a man. Eugenio looked at the man, and not the Pope.

“Father Granger—” Again he paused, then took a deep breath. “Well, Your Holiness, he’s not here.”

The expression changed to one of concern, his eyes narrowing and his head tilting slightly. “What do you mean, ‘he’s not here’?”

“We waited, Your Holiness, but he never arrived, so we”—somebody grunted—“I mean
I
decided we should enter, rather than wait any longer.”

“Has anyone looked for him?”

“Vincenzo went to his chambers and knocked, but there was no answer.”

The Pontiff looked at Vincenzo. “Did you enter?”

Vincenzo shook his head fiercely, as if the very thought of it were a deadly sin.

The Holy Father smiled at Vincenzo. “Do not worry, my son, I am sure it is nothing. But”—he reached for the edge of the duvet covering him—“I think we should find him.”

Giorgio raced forward and grabbed the corner of the duvet and pulled it aside as His Holiness swung his legs out and over the edge of the bed. He nodded to Vincenzo. “Vincenzo, please visit the Father’s chambers again, and enter if necessary, with my blessing. Should the Father merely be sleeping in, wake him, and nothing more, I am sure, will need be said. After all, we all sleep in on occasion, and when woken, immediately recognize our error.”

Vincenzo bowed and rushed off, half walking, half trotting, in an attempt to maintain dignity and decorum within the chambers of their most venerated leader. Eugenio watched him go then turned back to His Holiness, who clapped his hands together. “Well, how about we begin?”

Outside Father Granger’s Quarters

Apostolic Palace, The Vatican

Vincenzo hammered on Father Granger’s door, now desperate. The last thing he wanted to do was walk in on the Father. He pushed his ear against the door and still heard nothing. Or was there something? He pushed harder. He heard the creak from the door, protesting against his weight, and…

An alarm clock!

Vincenzo stepped back and fished the key from his robe. If the Father’s alarm clock was still going, he may be hurt, or worse. Vincenzo’s trembling fingers found the keyhole. Shoving the key in, he turned, the click of the metal lock radiated through the ancient wood door. He turned the handle and pushed the door open. The moment a crack was revealed between the door and its frame, the unmistakable sound of an alarm clock, its electronic beeping sound, desperate for escape and attention from someone, surged into the hall.

Vincenzo pushed the door fully open and stepped inside, not sure what he’d find. This was a room he had never been in. It was large, compared to his, but still fairly humble considering the position the Father held. He had to remind himself however that the era in which these rooms were built, this would have been considered huge. Today’s decadent society expected large rooms for the lowliest person, and huge rooms for anyone with any sort of status or position.

God help us.

Vincenzo stepped forward and immediately spotted the bed, to the left, against the wall. A bundle of sheets and pillows, along with a large, down filled duvet, were strewn across the bed. He couldn’t see the Father, nor could he hear any breathing. He stepped around to the right side of the bed, where the alarm clock was blaring, and reached out to turn it off. As he stepped forward, something touched his leg.

Vincenzo looked down and yelped, jumping back.

From under the duvet, a bloody hand stuck out.

Father Granger’s Quarters

Apostolic Palace, The Vatican

Inspector General Mario Giasson stood in the doorway, his trained eye surveying the now emptied room of the Father. As the head of the Corpo della Gendarmeria dello Stato della Città del Vaticano, or the Corps of Gendarmerie of Vatican City State, he was essentially equivalent to what many would call a chief of police, as well as the head of the FBI and Homeland Security. And murder was his business, though none had ever happened on his watch.

When he had received word of the death, and the apparent nature of it, he and several of his Swiss Guard had sprinted to the room. And to his dismay, he had found it filled with priests and laymen, touching the body, praying, and, most annoyingly, destroying his crime scene. Without setting a foot inside, he had ordered everyone out, including several bishops who were not used to being treated in such a manner.

He didn’t care.

If there had been a murder here, it would be the first in decades, and the first under his watch. And it would need to be solved as quickly, and quietly, as possible. The very idea of one of the most important commandments being broken on this hallowed ground was almost too much to fathom. The scandal could damage the Church at the very time it could least afford it.

He stepped inside.

It was a small room, though slightly bigger than the room His Holiness occupied, Pope Pius X having refused to move from his own humble chamber when elected pope, thus leaving the actual papal chambers abandoned since 1903, no other pope having dared to suggest he deserved bigger quarters. It was a shame, the original papal chambers quite remarkable, and now relegated to a museum curiosity.

However papal chamber choices were hardly of importance at this point in time. He stepped around the bed and saw the bloody arm of the victim sticking out from the covers. The duvet had been turned down, the entire body exposed, apparently by one of the staff. The victim was facing away from him. He leaned over the body and confirmed what he already knew. It
was
Father Granger. His face was barely recognizable, but his distinctive long hair, lean body and the ring indicating his position left little doubt.

But why is he in his robes?
A quick glance was all he needed to know the murder hadn’t been committed here. There was no blood splatter. Merely the body, and some stained sheets. He was fully dressed. Had he been waylaid on the way to waking His Holiness?
Impossible.
The chambers were not that distant, and the grounds too well guarded for there to be an intruder.

Then how do you explain this?
Clearly there was an intruder. For if there wasn’t, then one of their own had committed this ghastly act. He pointed at one of his men. “Photograph everything before anybody else comes in the room.” The man nodded and immediately began snapping photographs as Giasson stepped back into the hallway. He looked at Vincenzo, who he recognized as one of the Papal valets. “You discovered the body?”

Vincenzo nodded, his eyes red and his cheeks stained from tears now gone. “Yes, sir, not half an hour ago.”

“And why were you here?”

“His Holiness sent me to find him, as he did not appear for the morning ablutions.”

Giasson nodded.
He would never miss that.
“Has His Holiness been informed?”

“No, sir, he’s at morning prayers.”

Giasson nodded.
There are more important things in life than death.
“Very well, I will inform him.” He turned to Gerard Boileau, his second-in-command. “This is not the murder scene. Search the entire grounds.”

“What are we looking for?”

“Blood. Signs of a struggle. Anything out of the ordinary.” He paused for a moment, his finger poised in the air, then marched back into the room. He pressed the
Alarm
button on the clock.
5:15 a.m.
That seemed reasonable. He looked again, noticing another button labeled
Alarm 2
. He pressed it.
4 a.m.
The display on the clock indicated both alarms were active.
Why would he be getting up so early?
He returned to the hallway. “And check camera footage. See if you can track him.”

“There’re no cameras in this section.”

Giasson shook his head as he walked away. “I told them we needed coverage everywhere.” His voice trailed off. “Check the footage.”

“Starting from last night?”

“No, four a.m.”

Papal Office Antechamber

Apostolic Palace, The Vatican

Giasson stepped into the outer office and nodded to Father Morris, sitting behind a desk older than most countries. One of the things that never ceased to fascinate him was the history contained within the massive Vatican walls. Thousands of years, preserved from wars, famine, looting, the fall of mighty empires. It was all here, preserved lovingly in the archives using state of the art techniques, or in offices such as this, a utilitarian desk, used in a utilitarian fashion, as it was meant to be. It would never know abuse, it would never know carelessness, it would always be maintained with the utmost of care. And it would never be hidden away, like so much of the treasures of this vast complex.

“I assume you’re here about Father Granger.”

“He knows?”

Morris nodded.

“Is he receiving visitors?”

“He will see
you
.”

It was stated as if he were the exception. And his interpretation was probably correct. Father Granger was not only His Holiness’ private secretary, but his friend. They worked side by side, every day, for years, their relationship predating His Holiness’ appointment. It was inevitable that a bond would form between the two, especially considering the nature of their work. This was not an office building housing corporations where everyone was in a constant struggle to move up an imaginary ladder, to get a foothold over their office mate, to survive the recession intact. This was the Kingdom of Heaven’s embassy on Earth. This was a place of love, of joy, of mutual rejoicing in the Lord’s sacrifice for our benefit.

But today it was a city like any other city. A city with a murder to solve.

Father Morris rose from his desk, knocked on the large oak doors, then pushed them both open, walking in as he did so, the effect as if he were presenting the room to Giasson.

“Inspector General Giasson to see you, Your Holiness.” He bowed slightly to Giasson as he moved aside, allowing the security chief to step toward the Pontiff’s desk. He heard the doors close almost silently behind him.

“Mario, my son, so good to see you.” He struggled to push himself from his chair when Giasson waved him off.

“Your Holiness, please do not trouble yourself on my account.”

The Pontiff smiled slightly and sank back into his chair. “Thank you, my son. These bones grow weary. Lately I feel years older than I think I should.”

“It is a difficult life God has asked of you.”

He nodded and motioned for Giasson to sit.

“That it is, and days like today make it even more so, when the evil that men do seep through our protective barriers, both physical and spiritual, and strike down one of our own.” He paused, as if deep in thought, his eyes gazing, unfocussed, at the cross on the far wall. Giasson didn’t say anything, sensing he wasn’t finished. His gaze returned to Giasson. “Today we all mourn the loss of our friend and colleague. And today shall be a day of prayer, not work, for those of us who can afford to do so. You, however, cannot afford to rest. I am not so sheltered from the world about me to not know that time is of the utmost importance.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “You may not know this, but before this calling consumed all of my time, my idea of a good time would be to ‘kick back’ as the kids might say, and watch a gripping episode of Frost or Morse on the telly. Midsomer Murders, Poirot, Marple. I loved them all. They were my guilty pleasures of a sort, acquired over the many years I spent in England.” He leaned back in his chair, the slight signs of remembrance at a life almost forgotten slowly wiped from his face as the reality of the moment returned. “I assume you have questions for me?”

“Yes, Your Holiness. Just a few.”

“Proceed.”

Giasson pulled out his notebook and pen, and flipped to a blank page. “First, do you know of any reason why Father Granger would be waking at four in the morning?”

The Pontiff’s eyebrows rose slowly. “That is awfully early, isn’t it?”

Giasson nodded. “I checked his alarm clock, and the alarm, at least for this morning, was set for four a.m.”

“Perhaps his ablutions are far more involved than this old man’s?” A wry grin spread across the Pontiff’s face as he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest, his head pressed against what appeared to be leather far more sumptuous than anything in Giasson’s office. “He was a very prim and proper man, for one of the cloth. He took great pride in his appearance, to the point where he even had to confess it several times, vanity being one of his greatest sins.” He sighed then returned his eyes to Giasson. “He is to be at my door at six a.m. every morning to wake me. Why all the pomp and circumstance surrounding my morning routine I’ll never know, however who am I to question over a millennia of tradition. It would seem at some point in our history, men of my apparent stature were above bathing themselves.”