The Forgotten Painting by Gabriel Farago (readnow .TXT) 📕

followed by the Karl Vault, which leads into the Maria Theresia Vault with the spectacular double sarcophagus of Austria’s most famous empress and her husband. The sarcophagi of Empress Elisabeth—Sisi—her husband, Emperor Franz Joseph, and her son, Crown Prince Rudolf are in the Franz Joseph Vault next to the crypt chapel.

With standing room only, the hand-picked guests—the cream of the Austrian establishment—were waiting in the chapel for the performance to begin.

A ripple of excitement washed over the guests as Dr Gruber stepped forward. ‘Mr President, distinguished guests, ladies and gentlemen,’ began Dr Gruber, ‘it gives me great pleasure to welcome you here this evening to a very special occasion rarely seen in a solemn place like this. Mr Benjamin Krakowski has kindly agreed to perform a special tribute to Empress Elisabeth, our beloved Sisi, right here in front of her final resting place. We know she loved Mozart, and Mr Krakowski will play some of her favourite melodies for us in her memory.’

A round of subdued applause began, but Dr Gruber held up his hand. ‘However, there is another very touching, quite personal twist to all this. We are about to witness a piece of history. Mr Krakowski has brought his famous Stradivarius, the Empress, with him tonight. Most of you would be familiar with the violin’s turbulent history, which is closely linked to Sisi, the Hungarian Esterhazy family, and the Holocaust. It is the centrepiece of Jack Rogan’s best-selling book, Dental Gold and Other Horrors, and its story has touched millions of readers around the world.’

Dr Gruber paused and pointed to Jack standing at the front. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are fortunate indeed to have Mr Rogan here with us this evening to witness another chapter in the violin’s history.’

More subdued applause echoed around the chapel.

‘In fact,’ continued Dr Gruber, warming to his subject, ‘the instrument is named after the Empress—Sisi—herself, and it is therefore most befitting that it should pay tribute to her here tonight with sublime music played by a virtuoso.’ Dr Gruber turned to Krakowski standing next to him. ‘Maestro, please …’

Krakowski walked up to Empress Elisabeth’s sarcophagus and bowed. Then, lifting the violin to his chin, he turned around, faced his spellbound audience and closed his eyes. This moment of total concentration was how he focused before every performance. Crypt or concert hall, an audience was an audience. For a moment there was total silence in the chapel, all eyes on the man standing motionless in front of the empress’ sarcophagus. Then slowly, the bow touched the strings and the first notes of a sublime Mozart adagio drifted eerily across the burial chamber, breaking the deathly silence with Mozart’s genius.

Standing between Countess Kuragin and Jack, Tristan couldn’t take his eyes off Krakowski as the maestro began to play. At first, he was transported by the music. Soon, however, the music faded away and all he could hear was the whisper of voices closing in from all sides. Tristan pressed his trembling hands against his ears, but the voices wouldn’t go away. Instead, they were drilling into his tortured brain with messages he couldn’t understand. Countess Kuragin noticed Tristan’s distress and gently put her arm around him. This seemed to calm the boy, and the disturbing voices faded away. Feeling better, he looked gratefully at the countess as he remembered his mother’s warning: 'Be careful; glimpsing eternity comes at a price’.

After the performance, the president thanked Krakowski personally, and the visitors began to leave. A beaming Dr Gruber then ushered Krakowski and his guests into the New Crypt behind the chapel, and asked them to wait.

‘That was quite something, Benjamin’, said Dr Rosen, kissing Krakowski on the cheek.

‘I’ve never played in a place like this. Very moving …’

Standing next to Krakowski, the countess looked at Tristan with a worried look on her face. The boy looked pale and shaken. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked, frowning. ‘What was all that about?’

‘Glimpsing eternity comes at a price’, replied Tristan, repeating his mother’s warning.

Jack overheard the remark. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

‘I heard voices; coming from everywhere …’

Jack wasn’t surprised by the answer. ‘Could you understand what they were saying?’

‘No.’

‘Were they angry?’

‘No; urgent.’

‘How curious.’

‘This is Brother Balthazar’, said Dr Gruber, introducing the custodian of the Imperial Crypt Jack had met before. ‘He has kindly agreed to assist us in our search. He has considered the description in the Francis diary and has come up with a suggestion. Brother …’

The custodian appeared polite and cooperative, but his body language told a different story. It was obvious he wasn’t pleased about the unwelcome intrusion into his domain, and didn’t agree with disturbing the dead, however compelling the reason.

‘The diary talks about a simple sarcophagus standing on a podium decorated with …’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, that’s where the description ends abruptly. There are several sarcophagi fitting this description, but you must understand, we cannot just go from sarcophagus to sarcophagus and try to open—’

‘We understand completely’, Jack cut in, trying to placate the custodian and smooth his ruffled feathers.

Mollified, Brother Balthazar turned to Jack. ‘However, the coffin key could help’, he said. ‘Have you brought it with you?’

Jack reached into his pocket, pulled out the elaborate key and handed it to him. Standing in the shadows, Tristan was watching carefully. Then suddenly, the voices were back, but more subdued than before. One voice in particular, a woman speaking French, became more prominent. It was as if the coffin key had somehow triggered something…

Slowly, Tristan walked over to Brother Balthazar and held out his hand. ‘May I?’ he asked. The custodian looked at him, surprised, and handed him the key.

*

Jack paused and looked at Celia, who was hanging on his every word. She had her writing pad on the table in front of her and was busily taking notes. ‘Another drink?’ asked Jack, pointing to the empty brandy balloons.

‘No thanks. My head’s spinning already just from the story! Come on, Jack, keeping me in suspense like this isn’t fair. Tell me what happened!’

‘Such impatience’, sighed Jack, and ordered another cognac for himself.

‘Well, Tristan took the key from the custodian and began to walk slowly from sarcophagus to sarcophagus. He appeared to have entered a trance, oblivious to everything around him except the coffin key, which he held up to his ear like a phone—’

‘Communicating with the dead?’ interrupted Celia, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.’

‘I know what you’re thinking, but you weren’t there.’

‘Come on, Jack …’

‘I will tell you what happened, and you can make up your own mind.’

‘Sorry; I better have that drink now.’

Jack pushed his brandy across the table towards Celia. ‘Here, have mine; you’ll need it. But back to the crypt …’

‘What happened?’

‘’Tristan had us under his spell, especially the custodian, who crossed himself several times and began to pray. Silently, we followed Tristan from vault to vault, from sarcophagus to sarcophagus, like a funeral procession. Each time he entered a new chamber, he held up the key, looked around, and listened. Then suddenly, he stopped, and for what seemed an eternity, stared at a simple sarcophagus in front of him.’

Jack paused again, and ordered another drink.

‘For Christ’s sake, Jack; get on with it,’ urged Celia, ‘or I’ll miss my deadline!’

‘The sarcophagus stood on a podium and was decorated with an inscription plate and ivy wreaths, symbolising eternity’, continued Jack. ‘Lionhead handles, a symbol for the resurrection of the dead, were the only other features of note. After a while, Tristan walked up to the sarcophagus and put the key on top of it. “This is the one”, he said, and stepped back.’

‘What happened next?’ demanded Celia. ‘This is worse than pulling teeth!’

‘The custodian put the key in the lock—a perfect fit—and unlocked the sarcophagus. I then helped him open the heavy lid.’

‘And?’

‘As Benjamin told us at the auction, we found the painting—intact—resting on top of a wooden coffin that was draped in black velvet and gold. The sarcophagus belonged to Empress Marie-Louise, the wife of Napoleon I, who died in 1847 in Parma.’

‘Unbelievable!’ exclaimed Celia. She closed her notepad, reached for her handbag and stood up. ‘You have to excuse me. I really must dash!’

‘Of course’, said Jack and stood up as well. ‘I’ll call you a cab.’

Outside the hotel, Jack opened the back door of a cab and stepped aside.

‘Thanks for a marvellous evening, Jack’, said Celia, and kissed Jack on the cheek.

‘You are most welcome. Aren’t you just a little bit curious to find out who bought the painting?’ asked Jack.

‘Of course I am. I tried my best to get it out of the auctioneer. No chance! He didn’t give anything away.’

‘I’m not surprised’, said Jack, laughing.

Celia turned around to face Jack. ‘You know, don’t you?’ she said, her voice sounding hoarse.

‘Aha.’

‘Now you tell me! You—’

‘I’m meeting the proud new owner for lunch tomorrow’, replied Jack calmly. ‘You can come with me if you like.’

For a moment, Celia just stared at Jack, disbelief and exasperation clouding her face. 'Are you serious?’

‘Deadly.’

‘You’re on!’

‘I’ll pick you up at twelve-thirty.’

‘Okay. I’m staying at the Tower Thistle.’

‘How opportune.’

‘Why?’ asked Celia, climbing into the cab.

‘Because it’s very close to where we’re going.’

‘I don’t believe this’, mumbled Celia.

‘I hope you write something nice about me.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘See you tomorrow’, said Jack, and closed the door of the cab.

 

 

Jack hadn’t told Celia everything. He didn’t tell her about the other intriguing item he had found under the painting in Empress Marie-Louise’s coffin. The reason he hadn’t mentioned it was not because he didn’t trust her, but something quite different. He was still trying to work out what it all meant. However, something told him that it was important as certain cryptic references in Brother Francis’ diary were beginning to make sense. All Jack needed was a little more time to investigate and follow the breadcrumbs of destiny.

The Thirty-Five Million Pound Painting and The Megastar

Celia was waiting for Jack in front of her hotel overlooking the Tower Bridge.

‘You are a dark horse, Jack, I give you that’, she said breezily, and climbed into the cab. ‘No sleep for me at all last night, but my editor was mighty pleased with the article.’

‘So you found some nice things to say about me? Is that what kept you up all night?’ teased Jack.

‘You’ll just have to wait for the article to find out.’

‘Payback?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘If your editor was pleased with your stuff last night, wait for what’s about to happen.’

‘Are you winding me up?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Are you going to tell me where we’re going, or do I have to beg?’

‘Won’t make any difference. Tell you what; I’ll give you a clue.’

‘Go for it.’

‘The person you are about to meet is without doubt one of the most unique, talented, mega-rich, eccentric superstars alive on the planet today.’

‘What? Are you serious?’

‘I am. Any ideas?’

‘No. Any more clues?’

‘Adored by millions around the world…’

‘Yes?’

‘All right; one more. You’ll know in a moment anyway. If you’ve read all of my books, you’ve already met her’, teased Jack.

‘The megastar in The Hidden Genes of Professor K?’

‘Smart girl; I knew you would work it out.’

‘Are you serious, Jack, we are going to meet—’

‘Look over there,’ Jack pointed to a large converted bond store on the banks of the Thames, ‘the Time Machine Studios.’

‘Are you suggesting that Isis is the mystery buyer who just paid thirty-five million pounds for a lost painting?’

‘Exactly. And you are about to meet