02 _ Maltese Goddess, The (12 page)

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.

That morning, however, a black cloud had descended upon me. The dreary rain outside mirrored the inner workings of my psyche. The fog that swirled around the yard had somehow worked its way into my body. I felt as if my eyes and ears and all my inner workings were clogged with cotton wool. I could not get out of bed.

Marissa and Joseph, who had reappeared as suddenly as he’d left, arrived late morning. I heard them come in and call out for me, but I could not summon the energy to reply.

They came looking for me, and soon their two heads poked around the bedroom door. I waved at them in a languid fashion, extending my hand only inches beyond the edge of the duvet, which was pulled up to my nose, to do so. Apparently they did not like what they saw. I heard, but could not understand, their whispered consultation in the hall outside the bedroom and as they descended the stairs.

Soon I heard footsteps on the stairs once again and Marissa came into the room with a tray.

“Sit up, please,” she said in a tone of voice I assumed she normally reserved for Anthony at his recalcitrant best. I did what I was told. She was younger than I, but the tone apparently works for both children and people of all ages in a state of shock.

“Drink this,” she ordered. I shook my head. “I’ve talked to the doctor, and if you don’t drink this and eat something, he’s coming over.” I decided I was not in the mood to meet a Maltese doctor, however lovely and competent he might be, so I drank it down. It was tea, very hot, with lemon and enough sugar to supply the day shift at a candy factory. I had visions of it drilling its way through my teeth. But it worked. I felt better almost immediately. Then there was toast and jam and a little cheese.

“Good!” Marissa said. “Now you can have a bit of a rest until it’s time to get dressed. Anthony and Sophia will be here to pick you up about two.”

“Pick me up for what?” I managed to say.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. You promised to help Dr. Stanhope with her play. Sophia is counting on you,” she said severely.

I had completely forgotten, to be sure, and I didn’t want to leave my bed. Somewhere in my battered psyche I knew that everyone had decided it would be good therapy for me to do this, but I didn’t feel like it a bit. I knew I couldn’t let Sophia down, though. I had come to feel real affection for her. I also understood that fussing over me was good therapy for Marissa, who looked dreadful, puffy-eyed and exhausted, so I suppose we struck an unspoken bargain of sorts. I agreed to go.

It was a very damp day, so of course the car wouldn’t start. Anthony was not to be deterred this time. He made me sit in the driver’s seat, and then he and his father pushed the car down the incline of the driveway. It started just as I steered around the corner at the bottom. Anthony was pleased with the result. I did not feel my relationship with the car was improving over time.

We, Anthony, Sophia, and I, made our way to the University. I tried to memorize the route for future reference, but I was having difficulty concentrating on anything. Anthony, acting on his mother’s instructions, no doubt, dropped us right at the door and told us he’d be back for us about six.

Many of the students had already gathered when we arrived, and Sophia was pulled into the crowd immediately. I sought out Dr. Stanhope and reported for duty.

“Right,” she said. “You’ll be wanting a briefing. The play we are putting on is a history of Malta from Paleolithic times to the present. It’s done as a series of vignettes. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been to a
son et lumiere,
sound and light show?”

“Sure,” I said. “The Forum in Rome, Athens, the Pyramids of Giza, Karnak on the Nile—I kind of collect them. They are held after dark and use music and dialogue along with lighting to tell the history of a place—they light up particular areas of an historic site where an important event took place.”

“Exactly. Well, this is a little like that, except that we actually light the girls as they speak. They represent the people from different eras, all the nations that have come and gone in Malta, with commentary on historic events. We did it this way because our budget for elaborate sets is just about nil, and there are only fifteen girls in the class participating. Not exactly a cast of thousands.

“For our original production, the students designed and made their own costumes to illustrate various time periods, and we even got the boys in the school involved making props. In shop class they made the kind of implements that were used to build the temples, for example. Everyone pitched in to make the backdrop. The students painted scenes from Maltese history on huge sheets of paper. The first one was a picture of Hagar Qim, the second the ramparts of Valletta, the third the Grand Harbour. You get the idea. The assistant principal came up with a fast way to change the sets.”

“It sounds very ambitious,” I said.

“Well, it is. The students worked very hard. But I think they needed a bit of a stretch, and frankly their knowledge of their own history was appalling, just appalling. I made them do all the research and write the script. Originally I tried to get them to do it from the point of view of the women of each era, but it was too difficult for them. Too much under the thumb of the men around here, if you ask me. Then I hit upon the idea of telling the history from the point of view of the Great Goddess, sort of like having the spirit of Malta speak, and it’s worked out really well.

“Your young friend Sophia is proving to be quite a good little writer, by the way. Wrote her own part, and several others. Anyway, we put it on about a month ago here in the auditorium. Huge success, I must say. Standing ovation. The girls were thrilled.”

“So you’ve extended its run, I take it?”

“Extended… Ah, yes, show business talk, I surmise. Yes, for one performance only. After the show here, some muckety-muck in the Prime Minister’s office, Mr. Camilleri I think he said his name was, asked for an appointment with me. His card made him out to be the Prime Minister’s chief public relations officer.

“Told me the PM was entertaining some foreign dignitaries and he thought the play would be just the thing. Well, I have to admit it was all pretty flattering. I asked the students what they thought, and they were just blown away by the whole idea.

“Camilleri had some ideas to jazz it up a bit, of course. You know these PR types. Anyway, at some point a week or so ago, he hit upon the idea of putting it on at the site, Hagar Qim or Mnajdra. That’s why you saw us there a couple of days ago. We were location scouting—is that the term? We’ve decided Mnajdra is the place. We’ll put chairs—there’ll be about twenty-five people—about where you and I were sitting the other day, facing the temple entrance; we’ll use the ruins as a backdrop; and we’ll light certain portions of it to illustrate the history. The inside of the temple will be, in effect, our backstage.