Conclave

13 The Inner Sanctum

THAT NIGHT, AS they consumed the third dinner of their imprisonment – some unidentifiable fish in caper sauce – a new and febrile mood took hold of the Conclave.

The cardinals were a sophisticated electorate. They could ‘do the math’, as Paul Krasinski, the Archbishop Emeritus of Chicago, was going round urging them. They could see that this had now become a two-horse race between Tedesco and Tremblay: between unyielding principle on the one hand and yearning for compromise on the other; between a Conclave that might drag on for another ten days and one that would probably end the following morning. The factions worked the room accordingly.

Tedesco from the start took up a position alongside Adeyemi on the table of African cardinals. As usual, he held his plate in one hand and hoisted food into his mouth with the other, occasionally pausing to stab the air with his fork as he made a point. Lomeli – who was seated in his customary position with the Italian contingent of Landolfi, Dell’Acqua, Santini and Panzavecchia – didn’t need to hear what he was saying to know that he was expounding on his familiar theme of the moral decay of Western liberal societies. And to judge by his listeners’ solemnly nodding heads, he was finding a receptive audience.

Tremblay, meanwhile, a Québécois, ate his main course on a table of fellow French-speakers: Courtemarche of Bordeaux, Bonfils of Marseilles, Gosselin of Paris, Kourouma of Abidjan. His campaigning technique was the opposite of Tedesco’s, who liked to gather a circle around him and lecture them. Instead, Tremblay spent the evening moving from group to group, seldom staying more than a few minutes with each: shaking hands, squeezing shoulders, indulging in general bonhomie with this cardinal, exchanging whispered confidences with that. He did not seem to have a campaign manager as such, but Lomeli had already overheard several of the coming men – such as Modesto Villanueva, the Archbishop of Toledo – announcing in loud voices that Tremblay was the only possible victor.

From time to time Lomeli allowed his gaze to drift to the others. Bellini was sitting over in the far corner. He seemed to have given up trying to influence the undecided and was indulging himself for once by taking his meal with his fellow theologians, Vandroogenbroek and Löwenstein, no doubt discussing Thomism and phenomenology, or some similar abstractions.

As for Benítez, the moment he had arrived in the dining room he had been invited to join the Anglophones. Lomeli couldn’t see the Filipino’s face – he had his back to him – but he could observe the expressions of his companions: Newby of Westminster, Fitzgerald of Boston, Santos of Galveston-Houston, Rudgard of the Congregation for the Causes of Saints. Like the Africans with Tedesco, they seemed to be engrossed in what their guest was saying.

And all the while, between the tables, carrying trays and bottles of wine, moved the blue-habited, downcast-eyed nuns of the Daughters of Charity of St Vincent de Paul. Lomeli was familiar with the ancient order from his years as a nuncio. It was run from a mother house in the rue du Bac in Paris. He had visited it twice. The remains of St Catherine Labouré and St Louise de Marillac were buried in its chapel. Its members had not given up their lives in order to become waitresses for cardinals. Its charism was supposed to be service to the poor.

On Lomeli’s table, the mood was sombre. Unless they could bring themselves to vote for Tedesco – which they all agreed they couldn’t – they were in the process of gradually reconciling themselves to the fact that they would probably never again see an Italian Pope in their lifetimes. The conversation was desultory all evening, and Lomeli was too preoccupied with his thoughts to pay it much attention.

His dialogue with Benítez had disturbed him profoundly. He was unable to get it out of his mind. Was it really possible that he had spent the past thirty years worshipping the Church rather than God? Because that, in essence, was the accusation Benítez had levelled against him. In his heart he could not escape the truth of it – the sin; the heresy. Was it any wonder he had found it so difficult to pray?

It was an epiphany similar to that which had struck him in St Peter’s while he was waiting to deliver his sermon.

Finally he could stand it no longer and pushed back his chair. ‘My brothers,’ he announced, ‘I fear I have been dull company. I think I shall go to bed.’

There was a muted chorus around the table of ‘Goodnight, Dean.’

Lomeli walked towards the lobby. Few noticed him. And of those few, none would have guessed from his dignified tread the clamour resounding in his head.

At the last minute, instead of going upstairs, his footsteps suddenly swerved away from the staircase towards the reception desk. He asked the nun behind the counter if Sister Agnes was still on duty. It was around 9.30 p.m. Behind him in the dining room, dessert was just being served.

When Sister Agnes appeared from her office, something in her manner suggested she had been expecting him. Her handsome face was sharp and pale, her eyes a crystalline blue.

‘Your Eminence?’

‘Sister Agnes, good evening. I was wondering if it might be possible for me to have another word with Sister Shanumi?’

‘That’s impossible, I’m afraid.’

‘Why?’

‘She is on her way home to Nigeria.’

‘My goodness, that was quick!’

‘There was an Ethiopian Airlines flight to Lagos from Fiumicino this evening. I thought it would be best for all concerned if she was on it.’

Her eyes held his, unblinking.

After a pause he said, ‘Perhaps in that case I might have a private talk with you?’

‘Surely we are having a private talk at the moment, Your Eminence?’

‘Yes, but perhaps we might continue it in your office?’

She was reluctant. She said she was about to go off duty. But in the end she led him around the back of the reception desk and into her little glass cell. The blinds were down. The only light came from a desk lamp. On the table was an old-fashioned radio-cassette machine, playing a Gregorian chant. He recognised Alma Redemptoris Mater: ‘Loving Mother of our Saviour’. The evidence of her piety touched him. That ancestor of hers martyred during the French Revolution had been beatified, he remembered. She turned off the music and he closed the door behind them. They both remained standing.

He said quietly, ‘How did Sister Shanumi come to be in Rome?’

‘I have no idea, Your Eminence.’

‘But the poor woman didn’t even speak Italian and had never left Nigeria before. She can’t simply have turned up here without someone causing it to happen.’

‘I received notification from the office of the Superioress General that she would be joining us. The arrangements were made in Paris. You should ask the rue du Bac, Your Eminence.’

‘I would, except that, as you know, I am sequestered for the duration of the Conclave.’

‘Then you can ask them afterwards.’

‘The information is of value to me now.’

She stared him out with those indomitable blue eyes. She could be guillotined or burnt at the stake; she would not yield. If I had ever married, he thought, I would have wanted a wife like this.

He said, gently, ‘Did you love the Holy Father, Sister Agnes?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well, I certainly know he had a special regard for you. In fact I think he was rather in awe of you.’

‘I don’t know about that!’ Her tone was dismissive. She knew what he was doing. And yet a certain part of her could not help but be flattered, and for the first time her gaze flickered slightly.

Lomeli pressed on. ‘And I believe he may have had some small regard for me as well. At any rate, let’s say that when I tried to resign as dean, he wouldn’t let me. I couldn’t understand why at the time. To be honest, I was angry with him – may God forgive me. But now I believe I understand. I think he sensed he was dying and for some reason he wanted me to run this Conclave. And, with constant prayer, that is what I’m trying to do – for him. Therefore, when I say I need to know why Sister Shanumi came to be in the Casa Santa Marta, I am asking not for myself but on behalf of our late mutual friend the Pope.’

‘You say that, Your Eminence. But how do I know what he would have wanted me to do?’

‘Ask him, Sister Agnes. Ask God.’

For at least a minute she did not reply. Eventually she said, ‘I promised the superioress I wouldn’t say anything. And I shan’t say anything. You understand?’ And then she put on a pair of spectacles, sat at her computer terminal and began to type with great rapidity. It was a curious sight – Lomeli would never forget it – the elderly aristocratic nun peering closely at the screen, her fingers flying as if by their own volition across the grey plastic keyboard. The percussive blur of clicks built to a crescendo, slowed, became single beats, until with a final aggressive stab, she lifted her hands, stood, and moved away from the desk to the other side of the office.

Lomeli took her seat. On the screen was an email from the superioress herself, dated 3 October – two weeks before the Holy Father died, he noted – marked ‘In Confidence’ and reporting the immediate transfer to Rome of Sister Shanumi Iwaro of the Oko community in Ondo province, Nigeria. My dear Agnes, between us both, and not for public consumption, I would be grateful if you could take particular care of our sister, as her presence has been requested by the Prefect of the Congregation for the Evangelisation of Peoples, His Eminence Cardinal Tremblay.

After saying goodnight to Sister Agnes, Lomeli retraced his steps and returned to the dining room. He queued for coffee and carried it into the lobby. There he sat in one of the overstuffed crimson armchairs with his back to the reception desk and waited and watched. Ah, he thought, but he was something, this Cardinal Tremblay! A North American who was not an American, a French-speaker who was not a Frenchman, a doctrinal liberal who was also a social conservative (or was it the other way round?), a champion of the Third World and the epitome of the First – how foolishly Lomeli had underestimated him! Already he noticed the Canadian did not have to fetch his own coffee any more – Sabbadin collected it on his behalf – and then the Archbishop of Milan accompanied Tremblay over to a group of Italian cardinals, who deferred to him at once, widening their circle to admit him.

Lomeli sipped his coffee and bided his time. He wanted there to be no witnesses to what he needed to do.

Occasionally a cardinal would come over to speak to him, and he would smile up at them and exchange a few pleasantries – nothing in his face betrayed the agitation in his mind – but he found that if he did not stand, they soon took the hint and moved away. One by one they began making their way up to bed.

It was almost 11 p.m. and most of the Conclave had retired for the evening when Tremblay finally ended his conversation with the Italians. He raised his hand in what could almost have been interpreted as a benediction. Several of the cardinals bowed slightly. He turned away, smiling to himself, and walked towards the stairs. Immediately Lomeli tried to intercept him. There was a moment of near-comedy as he discovered his legs had stiffened and he could barely get up from his chair. But after a struggle he managed to rise and limped on stiff legs in pursuit. He caught the Canadian just as he put his foot on the bottom step of the staircase.

‘Your Eminence – a word, if I may?’

Tremblay was still smiling. He exuded benignity. ‘Hello, Dean. I was just on my way to bed.’

‘It really won’t take a moment. Come.’

The smile remained, but a wariness appeared in Tremblay’s eyes. Nevertheless, when Lomeli gestured to him to follow, he did – the length of the lobby, around the corner and into the chapel. The annexe was deserted and in semi-darkness. Behind the toughened glass, the spotlit Vatican wall glowed greenish-blue, like an opera set for a midnight assignation, or a murder. The only other illumination came from the lamps above the altar. Lomeli crossed himself. Tremblay did the same. ‘This is mysterious,’ the Canadian said. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s quite simple. I want you to withdraw your name from the next ballot.’

Tremblay peered at him, still apparently amused rather than alarmed. ‘Are you feeling all right, Jacopo?’

‘I’m sorry, but you are not the right man to be Pope.’

‘That may be your opinion. Forty of our colleagues disagree.’

‘Only because they don’t know you as I do.’

Tremblay shook his head. ‘This is very sad. I have always valued your level-headed wisdom. But ever since we entered the Conclave, you seem to have become quite disturbed. I shall pray for you.’

‘I think you would do better to save your prayers for your own soul. I know four things about you, Your Eminence, that our colleagues don’t. First, I know there was some kind of report into your activities. Second, I know that the Holy Father raised the matter with you only hours before he died. Third, I know that he dismissed you from all your posts. And fourth, I now know why.’

In the bluish half-light, Tremblay’s face seemed suddenly stupefied. He looked as if he had been struck a heavy blow on the back of the head. He sat down quickly on the nearest chair. He said nothing for a while, just stared straight ahead, at the crucifix suspended above the altar.

Lomeli took the seat directly behind him. He leaned forward and spoke quietly into Tremblay’s ear. ‘You are a good man, Joe, I’m sure of it. You wish to serve God to the fullness of your abilities. Unfortunately, you believe those abilities are equal to the papacy, and I have to tell you they are not. I am speaking as a friend.’

Tremblay kept his back to him. ‘A friend!’ he muttered bitterly and derisively.

‘Yes, truly. But I am also the Dean of the College, and as such, I have responsibilities. For me not to act on what I know would be a mortal sin.’

Tremblay’s voice was hollow. ‘And what exactly is it you know that isn’t mere gossip?’

‘That somehow – I assume through your contacts with our missions in Africa – you discovered the story of Cardinal Adeyemi’s grave surrender to temptation thirty years ago, and arranged for the woman involved to be brought to Rome.’

Tremblay didn’t move at first. When at last he did turn round, he was frowning, as if trying to remember something. ‘How do you know about her?’

‘Never mind that. What matters is that you brought her to Rome with the express intention of destroying Adeyemi’s chances of becoming Pope.’

‘I deny that accusation absolutely.’

Lomeli held up a warning finger. ‘Think carefully before you speak, Your Eminence. We are in a consecrated place.’

‘You can bring me a Bible to swear on if you like. I still deny it.’

‘Let me be clear: you deny asking the superioress of the Daughters of Charity to transfer one of her sisters to Rome?’

‘No. I asked her. But not on my own behalf.’

‘On whose behalf, then?’

‘The Holy Father’s.’

Lomeli drew back in disbelief. ‘To save your candidacy you would libel the Holy Father in his own chapel?’

‘It isn’t libel, it’s the truth. The Holy Father gave me the name of a sister in Africa and asked me, as Prefect for the Evangelisation of Peoples, to make a private request to the Daughters of Charity to bring her to Rome. I asked no questions. I merely obliged him.’

‘That is very hard to believe.’

‘Well it’s true, and quite frankly, I’m shocked that you should think otherwise.’ He stood. All his old self-assurance had returned. Now he looked down on Lomeli. ‘I shall pretend this conversation never took place.’

Lomeli pushed himself up on to his feet. It took an effort to keep the anger out of his voice. ‘Unfortunately, it has taken place, and unless you indicate tomorrow that you no longer wish to be considered for the papacy, I shall make it known to the Conclave that the Holy Father’s last official act was to dismiss you for attempting to blackmail a colleague.’

‘And with what proof will you back up this ridiculous assertion?’ Tremblay spread his hands. ‘There is none.’ He took a step closer to Lomeli. ‘May I advise you, Jacopo – and I, too, am speaking here as a friend – not to repeat such malicious allegations to our colleagues? Your own ambition has not gone unnoticed. It might be seen as a tactic to blacken the name of another rival. It could even have entirely the opposite effect to the one you intend. Remember how the traditionalists tried to destroy Cardinal Montini in ’63? Two days later he was Pope!’

Tremblay genuflected to the altar, crossed himself, wished Lomeli a cold goodnight, and walked out of the chapel, leaving the Dean of the College of Cardinals to listen to the dwindling echo of his footsteps on the marble floor.

For the next few hours, Lomeli lay on his bed, fully dressed, and stared at the ceiling. The only source of light shone from the bathroom. Through the partition wall came the sound of Adeyemi snoring, but this time Lomeli was so preoccupied with his thoughts, he barely heard him. In his hands he held the pass key Sister Agnes had lent him on the morning he’d returned to the Casa Santa Marta after the Mass in St Peter’s, when he’d discovered he had locked himself out of his room. He turned it over and over between his fingers, praying and talking to himself at the same time, so that the two merged into a single monologue.

O Lord, You have charged me with the care of this most sacred Conclave… Is it my duty merely to arrange my colleagues’ deliberations, or do I have a responsibility to intervene and affect the outcome? I am Your servant and I dedicate myself to Your will… The Holy Spirit will surely lead us to a worthy pontiff regardless of any actions I may take… Guide me, Lord, I beg You, to fulfil Your wishes… Servant, you must guide yourself…

Twice he rose from the bed and went to the door, and twice he returned and lay down again. Of course, he knew there would be no flash of insight, no sudden infusion of certainty. He did not expect one. God did not work that way. He had sent him all the signs he needed. It was for him to act upon them. And perhaps he had always suspected what he would have to do in the end, which was why he had never returned the pass key but had kept it in the drawer of the nightstand.

He got up for a third time and opened the door.

According to the Apostolic Constitution, no one was to be left in the Casa Santa Marta after midnight apart from the cardinals. The nuns were taken back to their quarters. The security men were either in their parked cars or patrolling the perimeter. In the Palazzo San Carlo, barely fifty metres away, two doctors were on standby. Should an emergency arise, medical or otherwise, the cardinals were supposed to press the fire alarms.

Satisfied that the corridor was deserted, Lomeli walked quickly towards the landing. Outside the Holy Father’s apartment, the votive candles flickered in their red glasses. He contemplated the door. For a final time he hesitated. Whatever I do, I do for You. You see my heart. You know my intentions are pure. I commend myself to Your protection. He inserted the key into the lock and turned it. The door opened inwards a fraction. The ribbons, affixed by Tremblay with such speed after the Holy Father’s death, tautened, preventing it from opening fully. Lomeli studied the seals. The red wax discs bore the coat of arms of the Apostolic Camera: crossed keys beneath an unfurled parasol. Their function was purely symbolic. They would not survive an instant’s pressure. He pushed the door harder. The wax cracked and broke, the ribbons came free, and the way into the papal apartment was open. He crossed himself, stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him.

The place smelled stale and airless. He felt around for the light switch. The familiar sitting room looked exactly as it had on the night the Holy Father died. The lemon-coloured curtains, tightly drawn. The scallop-backed blue sofa and two armchairs. The coffee table. The prie-dieu. The desk, with the Pope’s battered black leather briefcase propped beside it.

He sat at the desk and picked up the briefcase, rested it on his knees and opened it. Inside were an electric razor, a tin of peppermints, a breviary and a paperback copy of The Imitation of Christ by Thomas à Kempis. It was famously – according to the report issued by the Vatican press office – the last book the Holy Father had been reading before his heart attack. The page he had been studying was marked with a yellowing bus ticket, issued in his home city more than twenty years before:

Of the dangers of intimacy

Do not tell others what is on your mind but seek advice from someone who is wise and fears God. Keep company with young people or strangers sparingly. Do not admire the wealthy, and avoid the company of celebrities. It is better to keep company with the poor and simple, the devout and the virtuous…

He closed the book, put everything back in the briefcase and replaced it where he had found it. He tried the central desk drawer. It was unlocked. He pulled it all the way out, placed it on the desk and rummaged through the contents: a spectacles case (empty) and a plastic bottle of lens cleaner, pencils, a box of aspirin, a pocket calculator, rubber bands, a penknife, an old leather wallet containing a ten-euro note, a copy of the latest Annuario Pontificio, the thick red-bound directory listing every major office-holder in the Church… He slid open the other three drawers. Apart from signed postcards of the Holy Father that he used to give out to visitors, there was no paper of any kind.

He sat back and considered this. Although the Pope had refused to live in the traditional papal apartment, he had made use of his predecessors’ office in the Apostolic Palace. He used to walk to it every morning, carrying his briefcase, and invariably he brought work home with him to study in the evening. The burdens of the papacy were never-ending. Lomeli clearly remembered being with him when he was signing letters and documents in this very seat. Either he had given up work entirely in his final days or the desk must have been cleaned out – no doubt by the ever-efficient hand of his private secretary, Monsignor Morales.

He stood and walked around the room, summoning the will to open the bedroom door.

The sheets had been stripped from the massive antique bed, the pillows had no covers. But the Pope’s spectacles and alarm clock were still on the nightstand, and when he opened the closet, two white cassocks hung ghost-like from the rail. The sight of these simple garments – the Holy Father had refused to wear the more elaborate papal vestments – seemed to break something inside Lomeli that had been pent up since the funeral. He put his hand to his eyes and bowed his head. His body shook, although no tears came. This dry convulsion lasted barely half a minute, and when it passed, he felt curiously strengthened. He waited until he had recovered his breath, and then turned and contemplated the bed.

It was formidably ugly, centuries old, with big square posts at all four corners and carved panels at the head and foot. Alone of all the fine furniture to which he was entitled in the papal apartment, the Holy Father had chosen to have this ungainly object shipped to the Casa Santa Marta. Popes had slept in it for generations. To get it through the outer door must have required taking it apart and then reassembling it.

Carefully, as he had on the night the Pope died, Lomeli lowered himself to his knees, clasped his hands together, closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the edge of the mattress to pray. Suddenly the terrible solitariness of the old man’s life seemed almost too unbearable to contemplate. He reached out his arms in either direction along the wooden frame of the bed, and gripped it.

How long he remained in this position he could not afterwards say with certainty. It might have been two minutes; it might have been twenty. What he was quite sure of was that at some point during this time, the Holy Father entered his mind and spoke to him. Of course, it could have been a trick of the imagination: the rationalists had an explanation for everything, even for inspiration. All he knew was that before he knelt he was in despair, and afterwards, when he scrambled to his feet and stared at the bed, the dead man had told him what to do.

His first thought was that there must be a concealed drawer. He got back down on his knees and went round feeling under the frame, but his hands encountered only empty space. He tried lifting the mattress, even though he knew it was a waste of time: the same Holy Father who beat Bellini at chess most evenings would never have done anything so obvious. Finally, when all other options were exhausted, he contemplated the bedposts.

First he tried the one to the right of the headboard. Its top was a dome of thick dark polished oak. At a casual glance it appeared to be all of a piece with its heavy support. But when he ran his fingers around the beading, one of the small carved discs felt slightly loose. He switched on the bedside lamp, climbed up on to the mattress, and examined it. Cautiously he pressed it. Nothing seemed to happen. But when he grasped the bedpost so that he could swing his feet back down to the floor, the top came away in his hand.

Beneath it was an empty cavity with a flat, unvarnished wooden base, in the centre of which, so small as to be barely noticeable, was a tiny wooden knob. He grasped it between thumb and forefinger, pulled, and slowly withdrew a plain wooden case. There was a wonderful exactness to how it fitted. Fully extracted, it was about the size of a shoebox. He shook it. Something rustled within.

He sat down on the mattress and slid off the cover. Inside, rolled up, were a few dozen documents. He flattened them out. Columns of figures. Bank statements. Money transfers. Apartment addresses. Many of the pages had pencilled notations in the Holy Father’s tiny, angular handwriting. Suddenly his own name jumped out at him: Lomeli. Apartment no.2. Palace of the Holy Office. 445 square metres!! It appeared to be in a list of official apartments occupied by serving and retired members of the Curia, prepared for the Pope by APSA, the Administration of the Patrimony of the Apostolic See. The names of all the cardinal-electors who had apartments were underlined: Bellini (410 square metres), Adeyemi (480 square metres), Tremblay (510 square metres)… At the foot of the document, the Pope had added his own name: The Holy Father. Casa Santa Marta. 50 square metres!!

There was an addendum attached:

For the eyes of the Pontiff only

Most Holy Father,

As far as we can ascertain, the overall surface area of the APSA patrimony totals 347,532 square metres, with a potential value in excess of €2,700,000,000, but a stated book value of €389,600,000. The shortfall in revenue would appear to indicate a paid occupancy rate of only 56%. It appears therefore, as Your Holiness suspected, that much of the income is not being properly stated.

I have the honour to be,

Your Holiness’s most devoted and obedient child,

D. Labriola (Special Commissioner)

Lomeli turned to the other pages, and here was his name again: to his astonishment, this time when he looked more closely he saw it was a summary of his personal bank records with the Istituto per le Opere di Religione – the Vatican Bank. A list of monthly totals going back more than a decade. The most recent entry, for 30 September, showed he had a closing balance of €38,734.76. He had not even known the figure himself. It was all the money he had in the world.

He ran his eye over the hundreds of names listed. He felt grubby merely to be reading them, yet he couldn’t stop himself. Bellini had €42,112 on deposit, Adeyemi had €121,865 and Tremblay €519,732 (a figure that earned another set of papal exclamation marks). Some cardinals had tiny balances – Tedesco’s was a mere €2,821, and Benítez seemingly didn’t have an account at all – but others were rich men. The Archbishop Emeritus of Palermo, Calogero Scozzazi, who had worked for a time at the IOR in the days of Marcinkus, and who had actually been investigated for money-laundering, was worth €2,643,923. A number of cardinals from Africa and Asia had banked large amounts over the past twelve months. Across one page the Holy Father had scrawled, in shaky pencil, a quotation from St Mark’s Gospel: Is it not written, ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations’? But you have made it a den of robbers.

After he had finished reading, Lomeli rolled up the papers tightly, put them back in the box and closed it. He could taste his disgust, like something rotten on his tongue. The Holy Father had secretly used his authority to obtain his colleagues’ private financial records from the IOR! Did he think they were all corrupt? Some of it came as no surprise to him: the scandal of the Curial apartments, for example, had been leaked to the press years ago. And the personal wealth of his brother cardinals he had long suspected – the other-worldly Luciani, who survived as Pope only for a month, was said to have been elected in 1978 because he was the only Italian cardinal who was clean. No, what shook him most, at first reading, was what the collection revealed about the state of mind of the Holy Father.

He pressed the box back into its compartment and replaced the top of the bedpost. The fearful words of the disciples to Jesus came into his mind: This is a lonely place, and the hour is now late. For a few seconds he clung on to the solid wooden upright. He had asked God for guidance, and God had guided him here, and yet he was afraid of what else he might discover.

Nevertheless, once he had calmed himself, he went around the bed to the opposite side of the headboard, and checked the beading beneath the carved dome. Here too he discovered a hidden lever. The top of the bedpost came away in his hand and he drew out a second container. Then he went to the foot of the bed and pulled out a third, and then a fourth.