Conspired by Lyn J Pickering

Author:Lyn J Pickering [Pickering, Lyn J]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Forest of Lebanon Publications
Published: 2023-05-30T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 40

The Shroud

Freiberg was waiting for him at his usual table on the terrace. The day was overcast and he had pushed his hat back on his head and loosened his tie. Small white yachts skimmed the surface of the lake like bugs.

“Take a seat, Segal, I’ve ordered lunch.”

Michael set his own hat down on the table and reached across to shake Chaim’s hand.

“You’re looking better fed than you did when I last saw you,” Freiberg commented. “You’ve lost the desperate look.”

Segal grinned wryly. “I’ll be even better if the news you have is promising.”

“Hard to tell if it’s good or bad,” Freiberg shrugged. “Contact has been made, your girl’s still inside and there’s some arm-wrestling going on. No positive news so far, I’m afraid.”

“Did your contact say how she was?”

He shook his head apologetically. “Sorry old chap, it didn’t occur to me to ask.” His lapses into English were becoming more frequent and self-conscious as though he was trying to dispense with his German background and create a new persona.

“Alright,” Segal said covering his disappointment. “You had some thoughts on direction for these new articles?”

“Ah yes.” There was a pause while he mopped his brow and stuffed his handkerchief into his trouser pocket. Lunch arrived at that moment and Michael Segal noted with approval that the Beau Rivage Hotel was not constrained by any form of food rationing. The meal was served with a good red wine and for the first few minutes, Chaim Freiberg attacked his steak with relish. He was not a man who lightly mixed his culinary enjoyment with business.

“I was thinking more in terms of a book,” he said suddenly as though there had been no break in conversation.

“A book!”

“Yes, newspaper articles are published one day and are forgotten the next. A book has a more enduring quality. Think you are up to it?”

“Sure, but I would need to find work to keep me going while I’m writing.”

“More about that later.” Freiberg dismissed the thought as though it was of scant importance. “Look, Segal, this might not be exactly up your street, so tell me if you’re not prepared to do it.”

“Sure.” Michael picked up his wine glass and pushed his plate aside. Within seconds a waiter appeared from nowhere and spirited it away.

“I have an area of interest that I have been studying for years. Have you heard of the Turin shroud?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“It’s a Catholic relic, purported to be the shroud of Christ.”

“A Catholic relic!” Michael looked at him in stunned disbelief.

“Okay, okay! So what would a Jewish guy be doing studying a Gentile shroud?”

“Exactly! What’s the point?”

Chaim Freiberg scratched the bristle on his chin and leaned back in his chair.

“This shroud has a figure superimposed on it,” he said. “An image supposedly not made by hands.”

“What do you mean?”

“For one thing, it’s in the negative. When it’s photographed it reads more strongly. The face on the cloth is quite ghostly, almost watery in appearance.” He nodded at the waiter who hovered at his elbow, wine bottle in hand, and waited while he refilled their glasses.

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