Brother John's Holiday

By Matt Ryan

"Brother John an ex-policeman turned Carmelite monk finds himself caught up in a search for a missing Italian aristocrat. The colourful procession of characters from the Byzantine past and the Vatican bring out the enduring strengths of tradition and religious faith and gives the reader an insight into the world of icons and precious relics as well as an exciting chase by yacht in stormy weather in American waters.
The action takes place in Rome and the waters around New York but is set against the history of Constantinople and Armenia. The historical facts presented are accurate."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 7, 2003
• ISBN: 9781465319562

Matt Ryan

The author, who was born in London, spent thirty two years as a diplomat. He also served for three years in the R.A.F. and has travelled widely. His two degrees from London University were obtained externally. Married to a busy teacher of the English language, they have modest homes in the UK and Australia. He enjoys walking and a bit of sailing a well as some voluntary work with the NHS. This is his third full-lenght book

Book preview

Brother John’s

Holiday

Matt Ryan

Copyright © 2003 by Matt Ryan.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Prologue

This is a story to introduce the character Brother John Macfardle of the Carmelite order. The Carmelites were founded about eight hundred years ago. The name refers to Mount Carmel in the Holy Land. Although a religious order dedicated to a life of chastity, poverty and obedience and whose members live in community in a priory or monastery, the priests and brothers also serve parishes and carry out pastoral duties like the normal priests of the diocese who come under the control of the bishop. So one has the unique opportunity of meeting real monks often in the streets or supermarkets dressed in secular clothes, who still live a life of seclusion from the world and who keep the ancient offices and liturgies of the church.

Chapter 1

A matter of Habit

Brother John Macfardle was one such man who lived his life according to the rule and yet in some inexplicable way found himself increasingly involved in the most unusual and often bizarre situations.

He was always surprised by these unexpected turns of events and indeed sympathised with his Prior who, charitable man that he was, found it very difficult to understand firstly, how an ex-policeman had ever found his way into the order and secondly, why he had been moved to his priory, by the head provincial of the order based in Rome.

Nevertheless it must be admitted, that by and large, the order had come to accept that Brother Macfardle had to be allowed a bit of room to manoeuvre. And even sometimes, to sailing as close to the wind as possible.

He had after all, been given the gift of acute psychological insight and the even greater blessing of an amiable and easy going nature, which itself ensured that he was usually welcome in places and circumstances often less accessible to other men, let alone men of the cloth.

The Church in its wisdom, is now less demanding than of old. There is now a recognition once absent, that it would do no harm at all, even some good it is thought, for priests and members of the religious orders to have a bit of break from their regular duties and be able to take a holiday, out in the world, with the rest of us.

There was no scope for scandal then, that wet Friday evening when the rather bulky figure of a man emerged from the bus at Gatwick airport and pulling the collar of his raincoat up around his neck, briskly made his way into the terminal building, its spacious lobby already filled with bustling crowds of people in search of a week or two in the sun.

Pausing at the entrance, Macfardle fumbled in his pocket for his ticket and passport. Yes, there it was! The passport was brand new and had been issued only a week before by the passport head office in Westminster.

He caught a sight of the laminated colour photograph inside. There was himself, looking straight at the camera, forty something and rapidly going bald. Well, not exactly, there were still a few strands of the once ample red hair of the clan Macfardle clinging to his head to complement the high and impressive brow.

Dodging his way through the weaving luggage trolleys he joined the queue for the Italian charter flight. At the desk the young lady smiled at him and scrutinised his tickets, raising her eyes to give him an inquiring look when she opened his passport.

Thank you, vicar! She handed him the maroon passport and his ticket back and nodding pleasantly deftly slipped a label on his battered old suitcase and pointed with a finger towards the flashing screen of a monitor above them.

Your flight is just about ready to board. So, please go straight to gate 3 as soon as you can. He grabbed the small blue holdall which comprised his hand luggage and peering over the top of his spectacles, a habit he could not break himself of, hurried in the direction of the departure lounge. An hour later, settled comfortably in his seat and happily sipping his gin and tonic, he settled himself down to read his book. His holiday had begun!

Now it would not be at all surprising, if anyone reading this should be a little shocked or indeed scandalised, to find a celibate monk, a member of an ancient religious order, strapped snugly in his seat and indulging himself in the bibulous manner described. No one could blame them and the last to do so would have been Brother John himself, but you see there was no harm in it really.

When in Rome you had to do as the Romans did! When he got to his destination, he would be expected as a matter of course, to hold his own with some fairly serious aficionados of the local regions’s excellent wine. He, like St Paul, had to be in the world, but not of it. Certainly, it was a fine distinction at times and one that had to be constantly monitored, but nevertheless, those were the parameters within which he had to work.

Like any scientist or lawyer, the man of the spirit needed to ground himself in the realities around him, if he were to do any more than merely conduct a dialogue with himself and those who were like-minded.

He had managed to find an aisle seat, the window seat next to his was occupied by a young Italian woman. They had nodded and smiled on taking up their respective seats, but had not engaged in any meaningful conversation. Just in case one might think that the sight of a middle aged monk, got up in his brown habit, with a white cord around his waist, might cause aversion, curiosity or downright hostility, there was no need for alarm.

John Macfardle was dressed conventionally in grey slacks and a navy blue windcheater. As a matter of fact, his highly polished, brown leather shoes might have graced the feet of any well-heeled man about town. Personally, he had to admit that he was inordinately and unreligiously proud of them. No less, for having bought them for a few pounds last week at the local charity shop.

He glanced at his travelling companion. The lady, well dressed and exquisitely coiffured, her head slightly inclined, was looking out of the window, although there was little enough to see at thirty thousand feet, except the white, cirrus clouds, which he knew from past experience might mean some bumpy weather was ahead.

The warning signs, to fasten seat belts, which were now flashing, confirmed his fears and in the usual search for the elusive fastening apparatus, the ice was soon broken and he introduced himself.

I am John Macfardle, on my way Rome, very glad to meet you!

The woman smiled graciously and put out her hand.

Contessa Maria Del Sotto, also on my way to Roma. Looking at him she read his thoughts. Ah! Yes, I am in a hurry to get home, so I took the first plane, a charter! She looked a little sheepish. I am sorry, of course there is nothing wrong with charter planes. When I was a student I always used to travel on them. They both laughed.

The monk noticed that there was also a solemn air about her. He guessed that whatever was worrying her, was probably behind her need to get to Italy in a hurry. He almost ventured a slightly probing question, but her sad expression prevented him from risking it.

The cabin crew went about their business and soon the two of them were chatting convivially over their food. It seemed a relief to the Contessa to have someone to talk to and it was not very long before she began to relax in the company of this nice man with the gentle and compassionate manner.

By the time the plane had begun it’s descent to Rome airport, he felt that he had known his travelling companion for a lot longer than a few hours. The Contessa had told him that she was returning home so suddenly, because of the dramatic and unexpected disappearance of her husband.

He had been on a business trip to the United States and was returning to their home in Tuscany last week when he had vanished. It had only been possible to trace him to the airport hotel where he had lunched with a business contact. He had apparently then left, soon after three o’clock in the afternoon to drive to Tarquinia, an ancient walled town about fifty miles north west of Rome, after that, all trace of him had been lost.

The Contessa looked sad and worried as she shared this with him, someone who after all, was a complete stranger. Macfardle gave her a thoughtful look and asked what action the police had taken so far? He was surprised to be told that the police had not been contacted and that all the investigations were in the hands of a close family friend, Professor Angelo Brusselli, Head of the Department of Forensics at the Italian Institute of Criminology.

The Carmelite’s surprise must have been pretty obvious to his companion, because at once she started to explain why the police had not been informed, when he stopped her gently.

No, Contessa, the reason I was so taken aback, is that Professor Brusselli is my friend and in fact I am on my way stay with him at this very moment! He looked questioningly at the Contessa with raised eyebrows, for some reason this remarkable coincidence did not have quite the effect that he had expected. Instead of the wide-eyed reaction he had anticipated, the lady only gave him a rather embarrassed look. She looked away for a second, before turning to him again.

I am sorry Mr. Macfardle, but you see I already knew that you were a friend of Angelo. I must confess to you that our meeting was not as unplanned as it might have looked. When we discussed what to do about Giovanni’s disappearance, Angelo told me that he had a friend in England who might be able to help, and that this friend was in fact coming to Italy for a short holiday to stay with him and his wife. I realise that this is a terrible imposition on you, to spoil your holiday, but I have no one that I can trust, only Angelo. She stopped and looked beseechingly at him.

John Macfardle had very mixed feelings when he realised the implications for his much anticipated vacation. On the other hand he owed rather a lot to his Italian friend Angelo, whom he had known for many years. They had struck up a friendship when he had been at Scotland Yard and the Italian had been on a sabbatical; what was it? Almost ten years ago now!

The plane was about to touch down and there was no time to discuss such a complex affair. He smiled reassuringly at the now rather distraught woman and told her that they would discuss what was to be done after they had cleared customs.

As they and the other passengers began to filter their way up the aisle of the aircraft towards the exit, hand luggage gingerly held before them, the monk wondered what he was about to be drawn into. Would it be another one of those entanglements which it had once been his job to sort out according to law, but which now seemed increasingly to be a part of his new vocation? Ironically, he had never been so busy, certainly not since he had decided to withdraw from the world.

Chapter 2

Old habits die hard.

Angelo Brusselli was a big man by anyone’s standards and not only was he as tall as a tree, he was also as wide as a Lombardy doorway. In opposition to these physical attributes, his gentle manner and sincerity had won him many friends, even among the hardened criminal classes, with whom, his academic work often brought him into contact.

His giant stature was easily visible through the throng and as soon as they had made contact, he hurried the Contessa and his English friend out of the crowded lobby to a taxi that he had somehow miraculously managed to secure and prevent being snatched by the concourse of frantic passengers heading in its direction.

Dangling the two suitcases in massive hands, he managed to greet the two arrivals appropriately, a kiss for the Contessa and a gentle bear hug for his male friend.

Maria! How good to see you again and looking so well! John, is it really you after so many years and looking the picture of health! At least they now feed you better in the monastery. Eh?

They somehow bundled themselves into the back seat of the cab, with Angelo squeezing himself into the seat next to the sweating driver. Soon they were speeding and weaving their way towards Angelo’s apartment in one of the outer suburbs of Rome.

His wife Tina, as demure as her husband was rugged, waited for them at the door, her face open and welcoming. She hugged them all, one after the other, including the bear like frame of her smiling husband, as though he too had just arrived from abroad and had not been in their apartment only a few hours before.

While Tina bustled about preparing a snack and some drinks, the two travellers had time to sit and get their breath. No real conversation had taken place during the taxi ride and a certain amount of tension had inevitably crept into the atmosphere.

The Contessa was silent and Macfardle tried to break the ice a little whilst the Brussellis were busy in the kitchen.

Contessa. He began.

Please call me Maria. She said, turning her face toward him. He could see that she had been crying quietly to herself.

Thank you and you must call me John! You know of course that I am a Carmelite Brother? I hope that Angelo made that clear.

She gave him that quizzical look once more.

I am sorry, but I don’t understand. Angelo said that you were connected with the British police and that you would be able to help find Giovanni. Is that not so?

Well, in a way, that is true. I was a detective at Scotland Yard once, about ten years ago, that is, before I became a monk. He waited while she took in, this surprising bit of information. Now I spend my time between praying and pastoral work, you know, visiting the sick and helping the local prison chaplain. He saw that the Contessa was beginning to get the picture, which was, he had to admit, a strange one to assimilate.

Then how can a priest help me? She looked disappointed and a little flushed.

Oh, I forgot to make it clear Maria, I am not a priest, only a lay brother. Look! I have got a bit of time to spare and I will of course do anything that I can do to help. He sat back in his chair and observed her demeanour with professional detachment. The first thing we need to do, is to draw up a list of those persons who last saw your husband. After that, it is important that you tell me frankly, about anything at all that might help or give some clue to explain why this might have happened. Do you understand that Maria? Any problems he might have had with his health for instance. Did he have any enemies for example?

Macfardle sat back, as the Brussellis came back into the room with trays of food and drink. Maria said nothing, but watched the Britisher with a mixture of incomprehension and growing respect. His manner had taken on a new authority and exchanging glances with the genial Angelo, she made up her mind to tell this somewhat strange man all that she knew.

Later that evening after the Contessa had left for her Rome apartment, the two men finally found themselves alone. Tina had gone up to see her sister who lived in her own apartment on the floor above This was the Roman way, families stuck together and saw a lot of each other.

Angelo though was a bit of an exception, given half a chance he would have moved out of the noisy, traffic-ridden city and gone off to the Alban Hills to the east of the capital where his parents had come from; there still existed a derelict family farm to which he sometimes escaped. But, he sighed as he told it, his wife was a true daughter of Rome, she liked noisy crowded places and especially good food and shops, so they stayed on living in a small flat, on a busy street with an endless stream of traffic.

The two old friends sat comfortably in the chairs that Angelo had salvaged from the family home, after his father had remarried, to a much younger woman. Unfortunately, his two sons, Angelo and his younger brother did not approve of their new stepmother and since then passions had run high. Now daggers were drawn whenever property and family heirlooms were mentioned.

But as the kindly Angelo would explain, their father was an old man with limited time on this earth and one should respect his wishes. Mind you, that did not stop the occasional flare-up of tempers and from time to time, there were ugly scenes, a source of deep regret to the big man. This evening too, his warm brown eyes were a little anxious behind his glasses, as he gazed at his friend.

John, I am so sorry that I was not able to tell you about this problem of the Contessa’s before you left the UK. I thought that if she could contact you directly and maybe save time, it would be better in the long run. You see what I mean don’t you?

Yes, yes of course I do Angelo, and now that she has spoken freely about it, lets put that all behind us. He looked sympathetically at the man sitting opposite him, he knew him to be a sure haven for anyone’s troubles and easily led into complex situations in his efforts to help out.

He sat musing for a while and the Italian got up and fetched them each, a glass of brandy. Outside the window the constant but subdued roar of traffic persisted most of the day and night, but like all things in Italy, one got used to it after a while.

It was well past the Carmelite’s bedtime, they were expected to rise early to recite the office and attend mass. He looked at the expectant face of his host and decided to pursue the matter only a little further that evening.

"Maria has tried to be frank about her relationship with her husband and I will naturally keep her confidences if you do not mind, Angelo my friend, though I imagine that you probably know anyhow.

When she last saw him here in Italy, a few weeks ago, she noticed that he was unduly secretive, something to do with his business interests. These were, as you are well aware, connected with the import and sale of antiquities, mostly from the near and middle east region, many more of which have now become available since the Gulf war and the disintegration of much of Iraqi society. This has encouraged the illicit export of family heirlooms, sometimes of considerable value. Much of interest and value has appeared often in dubious circumstances, on the international antiques market.

It is tempting to surmise that the Count has got involved somehow and perhaps has incurred the wrath of Iraqi Intelligence, or the Italian mafia even. Macfardle held out his glass pensively for his solicitous and attentive friend to refill it. His secretary you tell me, has confirmed that he had a meeting with a Mr.Smith, a name we can discount for the moment, in New York." Angelo looked gratefully at his friend.

"Yes! Smith had rang him from the States the day before and the Count had caught a plane out at once. The secretary had no idea of the reason for the trip but felt that her employer was very excited about it. He returned just a few days later and instead of going straight home, booked into the Rome Hilton for the night. There he met up with one of his business contacts, Mario Centoquadro, an art dealer, originally from Florence, but who now lives here in Rome.

I spoke to him only yesterday again, he maintains that the Count was well, and acted perfectly normal. They had lunch together and discussed some routine business, unconnected with anything special and said goodbye about two thirty in the afternoon. He understood that Count Del Sotto was going to drive on to Tarquinia at once and he thought no more about it."

Angelo lowered his voice as he watched his friend carefully. I did not say anything to alarm him and as far as he knows, nothing is wrong.

Good work, Angelo, better keep it in the family for a bit longer, although I don’t know just for how long. We may yet have to call in the police. He glanced at his friend to get his reaction to this suggestion. Angelo looked a bit nervous and pulled at his collar as though it was suddenly too tight.

John, it is better if we can find him, please! He had tried to make this request sound normal but his obvious anxiety was not lost on the monk.

OK! We will try of course. Now lets get some sleep. Tomorrow I want to visit the hotel where he stayed and after that we need to see Centoquadro. Meanwhile and just to relax a little, I would like to visit the Vatican museum, old friend. Don’t forget that I am on my vacation! He slapped the big man heartily on the shoulder.

The Vatican museum had been a last minute inspiration, that was how his mind often worked. Something, temporarily forgotten, that he had seen or heard, often seemingly random and unimportant, yet still hovering in the background waiting to take on meaning within a new and unexpected context.

Chapter 3

A town for towers

Situated not far from the Etruscan tombs and only a few hours drive from the eternal city itself, Tarquinia is one of those fascinating Italian towns which can still claim to be authentically mediaeval.

The assortment of old buildings and the high masonry towers for which the region is famous had apparently no conventional discernible order in their layout. The nearest thing to a recognisable pattern would be the roughly spiral shape emerging from the confluence of residential dwellings, towers and churches. A sort of petrified whirlpool of ancient stone and yellowing brick, emphasised by the narrow, winding streets, especially if seen from a seagull’s eye view. For the sea and the glorious Italian coast was only a few miles distant and easily visible from the hill on which the town stood.

Count Giovanni Del Sotto knew the road from Rome to Tarquinia like the back of his