Free The Finer Points of Sausage Dogs by Alexander McCall Smith Page A

something tucked under his cassock, which he now took out and held before him. Von Igelfeld saw a small, candy-striped box, with a domed-top, the corners of which were lined with brass fittings.
    ‘This reliquary,’ said the Patriarch, ‘contains relics of the very greatest significance for the Church. Inside this box there rest the bones of St Nicholas of Myra. They are the object of the most particular reverence in the Coptic Church.’
    Von Igelfeld looked at the box in astonishment. He knew that St Nicholas, the Bishop of Myra in Turkey in the fourth century, was the original model for none other than the St Nicholas, or Santa Claus, of popular legend. These, then, were the bones of Father Christmas.
    The Patriarch now held the box out towards von Igelfeld.
    ‘I want you to look after these for me,’ he said. ‘There are schismatics in the Church who would dearly love to seize them and use them to sow dissension. While they are with me, they are in danger. If you take them, I can recover them from you at some time in the future. It will not be long. You said you were going to Rome for a month. I could get them back from you while you are there. By then, the danger will have passed.’
    Von Igelfeld felt the box being thrust into his hands. ‘But why have you chosen me?’ he stuttered. ‘We have only met once.’
    The Patriarch looked up at him and gave a rare smile. ‘I can tell that you are a man of integrity. I can entrust these to you in the confident expectation that you will not let me down.’
    Von Igelfeld looked at the box again.
    ‘You may open it, if you wish,’ said the Patriarch. ‘But please don’t lose the bones. Without them, my Church is bereft and my own position is considerably weakened.’
    ‘I shall do my best,’ said von Igelfeld.
    ‘Thank you,’ said the Patriarch. ‘Now I must tell you where I shall be in Rome and you must tell me where you shall be. But please do not attempt to contact me. Nor, if you come across me in public, must you appear to recognise me.
Rome has ten thousand eyes
and there are many there who would wish to weaken our cause.’ He paused, fixing von Igelfeld with that disconcerting, mournful stare. ‘Do I have your agreement?’
    It seemed to von Igelfeld as if there was no alternative. There was an air of such sadness about the Patriarch that it would have been churlish to decline to help him. And besides, it was a small thing to look after a reliquary. It could be tucked into his suitcase and left there until reclaimed. That was very little to ask when so much was at stake.
    ‘I shall do my best,’ he whispered, unconsciously mimicking the Patriarch’s conspiratorial air. ‘The bones will be safe with me.’
    The Patriarch bowed his head. ‘You are a good man, Professor von Igelfeld,’ he said. ‘May the protection of St Nicholas himself be with you now and in the days to come.’
    And with that he slipped away, leaving von Igelfeld standing in the tiny, dark courtyard with the holy striped box nestling in his hands and a hammering within his breast. There were still so many questions to be asked, but there would be time enough for that in the future. Von Igelfeld’s immediate task was to stride back to the hotel through the streets of Siena, the box tucked under his jacket. If there were schismatics abroad, even in the heart of Siena, then it would be advisable to have the box safely locked up in his hotel room, away from prying eyes.
    They left Siena early the following day, following an indirect, winding route down towards Rome. Von Igelfeld had not mentioned the encounter with the Patriarch, nor had he revealed to the Prinzels the contents of the small overnight bag which he had placed on the seat beside him. Prinzel had attempted to load the bag with the rest of the luggage, but von Igelfeld had resisted.
    ‘That would be safer beside me,’ he had said.
    Prinzel gave his colleague a sideways look. ‘Are you carrying a fortune with you?’ he