The First Apostle

right, but not from top to bottom.”

Vertutti peered at the photograph in front of him and nodded. The gap between the letters and the top of the stone was much larger than that at the bottom. Now that Pierro had pointed it out, the discrepancy was quite obvious. A classic case, he mused, of not being able to see the wood for the trees.

“And that means what?” he asked.

“The most obvious conclusion is that this stone”—Pierro tapped the photograph with his finger for emphasis —“was originally part of a larger slab, and at some point the lower section was removed.”

“Can you be certain of that?”

Pierro shook his head. “Not without examining the stone for myself, but these photographs are fairly clear. In one of them are what look to me like marks made by a chisel, which would have been the obvious tool to split the slab in two. I think this stone was made as a kind of pointer, a device that would lead to the ‘Tomb of Christianity,’ which is how I believe Pope Vitalian described it in the Codex.”

Vertutti glanced angrily at Mandino as Pierro confirmed the depth of his knowledge of the secret Codex.

“I believe the lower half of the slab almost certainly had a map or directions of some sort carved on it,” Pierro finished.

“So what are you suggesting?” Vertutti demanded. “Where is the missing section?

And how do we find it?”

Pierro shrugged. “That’s not my problem,” he said, “but it seems logical that whoever decided to split the stone would not have discarded the lower half. If this stone had been incorporated in the wall of the house purely as a decoration, why didn’t they keep it intact? Why go to the trouble of cutting it in two? The only scenario that makes sense is that this section of the stone was placed in the wall for a purpose, as a definite pointer for somebody who knew what they were looking for.

Unless you know the identity of the ‘liars,’ this stone is merely a curiosity. And that means—”

“That means,” Mandino interrupted him, “that the other half of the stone is probably concealed somewhere in the property, so I’m going to have to send my men back to the house to find it.”

9

I

Bronson walked across the hall to the front door and pulled it open. Standing on the doorstep was a short, dark-haired man dressed in grubby white overalls. Behind him was an old white van, the diesel engine clattering noisily, with three other men sitting in the cab.

“Can I help you?” Bronson asked in Italian.

“We would like to speak with Signor Hampton. We need to know about the work.”

Bronson guessed they were the builders who’d been employed to do the renovations on the property.

“Come in,” he offered, and led the four men through to the kitchen.

Mark greeted them in halting Italian.

Bronson immediately took over, explaining that he was a family friend and offering wine—an offer that was gratefully accepted. Once Bronson had opened a couple of bottles and filled glasses, he asked what the men wanted.

“We had a small job to do on Wednesday morning and so we arrived here in the afternoon,” the foreman said, “but when we drove up we found that the police were here. They said there’d been an accident, and told us to go away and not come back for at least two days. Later we heard that the signora had died. Please accept our sincere condolences for your loss, Signor Hampton.”

Bronson translated, and Mark nodded his understanding.

“What we need to know,” the foreman continued, turning back to look at Bronson,

“is whether or not Signor Hampton wants us to continue with the work. We have other clients waiting for us if he doesn’t, so it’s not a problem. We just need to know.”

Bronson relayed the question to Mark, who immediately nodded his head in agreement. The renovations weren’t even half finished, and whether he decided to keep the house or sell it, the work would obviously have to be completed. That response generated broad smiles all around, and Bronson wondered briefly just how many “other clients” the builders had.

Ten minutes later, having each drunk a second glass of red wine, the four builders were ready to leave. They would, the foreman promised, be back at the house first thing on Monday morning, ready to continue their labors.

Bronson led the way back to the hall, but as the procession passed the door to the living room—which was standing wide open—one of the builders glanced inside and came to an abrupt halt. He said something to his companion, which Bronson didn’t hear clearly, then stepped inside the room.

“What is it?” Bronson asked.

The foreman turned to face him. His former good humor seemed to have vanished.

“I know Signor Hampton has had a dreadful shock, but we do not appreciate him trying to take advantage of us.”

Bronson hadn’t the slightest idea what the man was talking about. “What? You need to explain what you mean,” he said.

“I mean, Signor Bronson, that he’s obviously employed another builder to do some work here since last Tuesday, and that builder has probably been using our tools and materials.”

Bronson shook his head. “As far as I know, nobody else has done any work here.

Signora Hampton died sometime on Tuesday night or early on Wednesday morning.

The police were probably here for most of Wednesday, and we arrived late last night, so when could . . . ?” His voice died away as a possible explanation occurred to him. “What work has been done?” he demanded.

The foreman swung around and pointed at the fireplace. “There,” he said. “There’s new plaster on the wall, but none of us put it there. We couldn’t have, because we were waiting for Signora Hampton”—he made the sign of the cross on his chest—“to decide about the lintel.”

Bronson felt the conversation slipping away from him.

“Wait there,” he said, and walked quickly back to the kitchen. “Mark, I need your input here.”

Back in the living room, Bronson asked the foreman to explain exactly what he meant.

“On Monday afternoon,” the Italian said, “we were stripping the old plaster off the wall here above the fireplace. When we exposed the lintel, we called Signora Hampton, because the stone had a big crack in it, just about here.” He sketched a diagonal line directly above one side of the fireplace. “It had a steel plate underneath it, so it was safe enough, but it wasn’t very attractive. The signora had wanted the lintel exposed, as a feature, but when she saw it was broken she couldn’t decide what to do. She asked us to wait, and just carry on stripping the old plaster, which we did. But now, as you can see, that whole area has fresh plaster on it. Somebody else has been working in here.”

Bronson glanced at Mark. “Do you know anything about that?”

His friend shook his head. “Nothing. As far as I know, Jackie was perfectly happy with these builders. If she wasn’t, I can guarantee she’d have told them so. She was always very forthright.”

That, Bronson thought, was an understatement. Jackie had never, to use an old expression, been backward in coming forward. It was one of the many things he’d found attractive about her. She always said exactly what she thought, politely but firmly.

Bronson turned back to the foreman. “We’re certain no other builders have been in here,” he said, “but you obviously know what stage you’d reached in the renovations. Tell me, when you removed the plaster, did you find anything unusual about the wall, apart from the crack in the lintel?”

The foreman shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, “apart from the inscribed stone, but that was just a curiosity.”

Bronson looked at Mark with a kind of triumph. “I think we’ve just traced what Jackie found,” he said, explaining what the builder had told him. And without waiting for Mark to respond, he switched back to Italian.

“Strip it,” he ordered, pointing at the wall. “Strip the new plaster off that wall right now.”

The builder looked puzzled, but issued instructions. Two of his men seized club hammers and broad-bladed masonry chisels, dragged a couple of stepladders over to the fireplace and set to work.

Thirty minutes later, the builders left in their old van, again promising to return early on Monday morning. Bronson and Mark walked back into the living room and stared at the Latin inscription on the wall. Bronson took