In the Shadow of Vesuvius

by Tasha Alexander

  “I must say, Mr. Taylor, it’s more than they deserve.”

  “Sometimes, we all need more than we deserve.” His entire mood lightened as he offered me his arm and we strolled back onto Pompeii’s main street. “Given this conversation, I might as well confide in you that I have a habit of collecting strays. I can’t resist it. Stirling, for example, what a mess he was when I found him! He’d got into some trouble over unpaid debts he’d left behind in Cambridge. Our Cambridge, not yours. He studied at Harvard. Had a devil of a time finding a position. Scandals can destroy a reputation, and the world of archaeology is small. He spent years working on small excavations of burial mounds in the United States, but he always wanted to be at Pompeii. He kept up with the current research here—read all the excavation reports and, before he’d so much as set foot in the city, knew every inch of the site better than most people who’ve worked here for years. A man obsessed, if you will.”

  “I can well understand being drawn to this place,” I said.

  “It’s unlike anything else. Magical and cursed all at once.” He sighed. “I’m grateful to you for telling me the truth. Now, if you’ll forgive me for abandoning you, I’m afraid I must return to my excavations and have a conversation with my disingenuous staff members.”

  AD 79

  40

  I met Silvanus two days after the earthquake. I had gone to the bar early, wanting to be there before he arrived. Sitting down, I waved over the same surly waiter who always served us and directed him to bring two beakers of the cheapest wine they had.

  “Your friend, he prefers the best,” the man said.

  “His preferences aren’t my concern.”

  The waiter shrugged and came back with the drinks. I had taken Silvanus’s usual seat, against the back wall of the pathetic garden, with its beaten dirt floor and complete absence of plants.

  Silvanus raised his eyebrows when he saw me there, but said nothing, only sat down and took a swig of his wine, which he immediately spat onto the ground. “This is worse than ever.”

  “I didn’t see the point in having better,” I said. “I assume this is to be our last meeting?”

  “You’re angry. I understand that and expected as much. I didn’t mean any insult by excluding you from the dinner party, but I was ready to recite from your poem, and I didn’t think you should be there for that.”

  “No, gods forbid I would be present to see the reaction of your guests to my own work.”

  “We’ve discussed this before. If we are to make it possible for you to achieve the success you deserve, it’s critical that no one have even the slightest clue as to your identity until we decide to reveal it. You might have given the whole game away if you’d been there.”

  “We have discussed this before, yes, but you are not merely keeping me from one dinner party,” I said. “Lepida told me I’m not to enter your house again.”

  “When did you speak to her?” he asked.

  “Irrelevant.” My voice dripped with venom, but then I thought the better of what I was doing. My friend could get in a great deal of trouble if she went against her husband’s wishes. “And I didn’t say I spoke to her, did I? Maybe she sent me a message.”

  “You’re correct that it’s irrelevant,” he said. “I appreciate the friendship you share with my wife, but right now, I cannot have you coming to my house. By forbidding her to see you, painful though it may be in the short term, I don’t have to ban you from individual parties again and again when I want to present your poems. Do you not think Lepida intelligent enough to notice if I never let her invite you to parties when there was poetry? How would I explain that to her? It could make things most awkward, and I have already told you she is likely to expose our secret—even if only out of love and pride for you. Once the truth is known to everyone, you will, of course, be welcome in my house. Everything will be better then.”

  I folded my hands in my lap. I understood the theory of what he was saying, but it did not feel right. “I don’t care what you do, so long as you’re kind to Lepida.”

  “I am always kind to my wife.”

  Before I could reply, another tremor struck. Small, like the last one, over almost before it started. What were the gods saying now?

  1902

  41

  “And that was it?” Ivy asked, when I returned to the villa. “He wasn’t angry?” She had dropped her embroidery onto the floor when I told her what Mr. Taylor said.

  “The betrayal made him uncomfortable, certainly, but he exhibited more empathy for them than anything else.”

  “So, just like that, it’s all over? And they emerge unscathed?”

  “Not entirely unscathed. He’s no doubt in the midst of a most unpleasant conversation with them both, which is no more than they deserve, but they will remain in his employ.”

  Ivy sighed. “I’m happy for them in that regard, but I can’t rejoice in the knowledge that their deliberate lies brought them to such a pleasant end.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Do remember, however, that it’s not all over. There’s still a murder to solve.”

  “And you think Benjamin will meet his just deserts as a result of that?” Ivy asked. “I know you are still suspicious of him. Yes, he has a temper, and yes, he’s moody. He’s committed a terrible fraud. But can he really be a vicious killer?”

  “That, my friend, is a question I cannot answer at present.”

  “Perhaps we should take a closer look at Mr. Taylor,” she said. “He was too quick to forgive them. What does that tell us about him? And what are we going to do about poor Jeremy? I haven’t seen him since he left with Callie this morning. Do you think she will have confessed her sins to him?”

  “If she hasn’t, I’ll tell him. He won’t take kindly to being made to look a fool.”

  “You’re suggesting he’s not so enlightened and ready to forgive as Mr. Taylor?”

  “Not even close,” I said. As much as I wanted to talk to Jeremy, I also wanted a word with Callie. I may have helped her, but that did not mean I was anything but angry with her. As much as I admired her drive and her persistence, she ought not have stooped to such underhanded measures in pursuit of her goals. Her deception would have no positive effect on the obstacles faced by the ladies who came after her. Once it became public knowledge—and I had no doubt that, eventually, it would—her methods would provide ammunition for those who wanted to thwart the progress of women.

  Colin and Kat returned more than an hour after the sun had set, exhausted and dusty. They’d been at the dig when Mr. Taylor had gathered all his employees around, told them everything, scolded the world at large for forcing young ladies of spirit into constructing such lies, and sent them back to work. Callie broke down into tears and all but flung herself at his feet in thanks. Benjamin took the news more stoically, asking to speak to his employer privately, but upon doing so, he, too made profuse apologies.

  “It’s turned out well for them both,” Colin said as I was dressing for dinner. Ready before me—as gentlemen always are, their toilettes far less complicated than ladies’—he dropped onto a chair with elegant ease. “I’m intrigued by the story of Stirling’s difficulties. It sounds like Taylor glossed over them to you. I don’t see how a handful of unpaid debts at university would entirely destroy a man’s career prospects. Surely not even the Americans can be that puritanical.”

  “No doubt there’s more to it,” I said. “Mr. Taylor admitted to collecting strays, so it might be worth interviewing his staff again. Mr. Stirling may not be the only one of them with a checkered past.”

  After my husband assisted me with the pale green sash on my dress—a delicious Worth concoction of cream silk and lace covered with chiné flowers that reminded me of a Monet painting—we went down to dinner. Well, not precisely down, as all the rooms in the villa were on a single level. We found Ivy, Kat, and Jeremy on the terrace, drinking champagne and engaging in a lively, lighthearted conversation. My temples started to throb.


  “You’re in awfully good spirits,” I said, as Jeremy pressed a glass into my hand. “Might I speak privately to you, for a moment?” I hated to destroy his mood—and the evening—but I could not stand by and let him believe Callie’s lies any longer. She’d had her chance to do the noble thing; I was disappointed she had not shown the moral courage for it.

  “Naturally, Em, I’m always delighted to be pulled aside by you. Hargreaves becoming tedious, is he? Can’t say I’m surprised. What else can you expect from a Cambridge man? You can always count on me for a bit of excitement.”

  “I can’t think of anything more tedious—not to mention more wildly inappropriate—than your idea of excitement,” I said. He was grinning broadly. I took a deep breath and looked him square in the eyes. “I must tell you something quite serious, something that pains me on more levels than I can count. You know how fond I am of you and that I want nothing more than to see you happily settled, whatever that may mean. I am aware that your own feelings on the subject are somewhat complicated, and I have always done my best to respect that. Now, however—”

  “Criminy, Em, what are you getting at? You’re babbling and incoherent. What has you so tied up in knots?”

  “It’s just that—” I stopped. “This is extremely difficult for me, Jeremy. I have never, ever wanted any part in seeing you hurt. That whole dreadful business with Amity still haunts me, and now—” I stopped again, this time not because I was unsure of how to best proceed, but because he was laughing.

  “It’s all clear to me,” he said, once he’d managed—rather inelegantly—to stop his guffaws. “There’s no need for you to explain. You found out about Callie, didn’t you?”

  “I found out? Does this mean you know the truth about her identity?”

  “Of course I know,” he said, an insufferably smug look on his face. “She told me the first time I tried to kiss her. She doesn’t like dishonesty and considers herself a—what do Americans call it? They have some charmingly crass phrase. Oh, yes, I remember—a real straight shooter. Thought that if I was going to have the misfortune of falling in love with her, I should at least know the truth.”

  “So you have known, this entire time, that she was living with Benjamin even though he isn’t her brother?”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” he said, and shrugged. “Can’t say that it made the slightest difference to me. No one in their right mind would worry she’d fall for a moody artist. Good bloke—I’m fond of him myself—but he’s not the man for her. Even Carter knows as much.”

  “Does he know that you know?”

  “Yes, Callie told him. They’re absolutely candid with each other and both agree it is critical they be fully informed about the status of their little game.”

  “I’d hardly call it a little game,” I said, feeling rather irritated and unable to identify the object of my ire. Was it Callie? Benjamin? Jeremy? All of them? Yes, it had to be all of them. But then, as I continued to consider the matter, I remembered that Benjamin had lied to me yet again—he had sworn that no one knew their secret but me. “What do you really think about Benjamin? How well do you know him?”

  “He’s harmless enough,” Jeremy said and pulled a silver cigarette case from his jacket pocket. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”

  “Do whatever you like. You will regardless of what I say.”

  “You’re not angry at me, are you? Callie told me her secret in confidence, and a gentleman—”

  “Callie is the least of my concerns at the moment,” I said, not being entirely honest. “It is Benjamin who worries me more. He’s been rebuffed by the girl he loves, publicly exposed as a liar, and is one of the few people in Pompeii capable of producing the painting on the marble thrown at Colin. We know what his temper’s like. How will he react if he finds himself accused of murder?”

  AD 79

  42

  The weeks became months, and still I wrote almost without stopping, like a woman possessed, inspired not by the Muses, but the Furies. I sent word to Silvanus that I would not be able to meet him until I had completed my work and assured him the end was as close as Odysseus came to being destroyed by Scylla and the terrible Charybdis. He replied that my words had not given him comfort. They were not meant to.

  Late on a stormy autumn night, I scratched the final words on my tablet. My hero had escaped the wrath of countless enemies and, once again, gazed upon the seven hills of Rome. As rain cleansed Pompeii around me, I transferred my verse onto papyrus and then gathered my scrolls. I had made two copies of each book of the poem, one for Silvanus, and one for myself. Tomorrow, he would have the last installment, and our clandestine relationship would come to an end.

  I no longer cared about him reciting my work to his friends. I no longer craved fame and glory. My words were enough; they had to be, for once a poem is complete, it is out of the grasp of its creator, and will do—and be—what it will.

  And so, once again, I made my way through the worst neighborhood in the city, to the wretched little bar and its wretched little garden. I had come early, wanting to arrive before Silvanus. In this, I was successful.

  I did not, however, arrive before Lepida, who was sitting at our regular table, on the bench usually occupied by her husband, a look of incandescent rage on her face, rage that would have been worthy of Achilles himself.

  1902

  43

  I was of two minds after conversing with Jeremy. On the one hand, I was pleased that Callie (whose true surname, he told me, was Piper) had not lied to him about her identity once she became aware of his affection for her. She wasn’t so devious and depraved as I had feared. But at the same time, could I rejoice at seeing one of my dearest friends so blind with love that he would attach himself to someone with a known capacity for deception? I could not entirely share Mr. Taylor’s confidence that, given a second chance, she would never again turn to such tactics if faced with adversity.

  Colin and I arranged to reinterview each of the members of Mr. Taylor’s staff, hoping that one of his strays might reveal something that would enable us to bring Mr. Walker’s and Mr. Jackson’s murderer to justice. Most of them, however, proved to have mundane, if murky, pasts. One had been sent down from university and never finished his degree. Another had been caught having an affair with the wife of a friend. A third, who was entirely self-educated—a result of having grown up in abject poverty—had approached Mr. Taylor, begging to be allowed to learn the science of archaeology on his dig. It was still early in the season, but already he had proven himself capable of quick learning and an unrelenting desire to work. His was an entirely admirable character, working hard to, as the Americans say, pull himself up by his bootstraps.

  “Taylor may consider them strays,” Colin said, “but they’re hardly a motley group. Their indiscretions are less nefarious than I’ve seen elsewhere.”

  We were waiting for Mr. Stirling, the last member of the staff to whom we would speak. From the moment I had met him, I’d been fond of him—he with his sensitive poet’s soul and a gentleness one does not often find in the members of his sex, but, at the same time, there was something about him I didn’t trust. Why did he refuse to have his picture taken? He sat across from us, his hands folded and resting on the table in front of him, and explained away the troubles from his Harvard days easily; they were ordinary enough, a student overspending his allowance.

  “The piece I don’t understand, Stirling, is how this stopped you from getting a job,” Colin said. “There’s no question that unpaid debts are dishonorable, but they’re not uncommon, nor, unless they are enormous, do they categorically ruin a man.”

  “No, they don’t,” Mr. Stirling said. “More often than not, someone steps in and pays the bills. One’s father or one’s uncle or some other responsible—and, no doubt, disappointed—relative. I, unfortunately, had no such person in my life. My father and I were never close. As his only son, I expected to be his heir, but we argued frequently, and h
e never hid his disdain for me, even when I was a child. I was thin and weedy and he considered my appreciation of poetry effeminate. He expected me to take over the family business when he retired, but I had no interest in managing textile factories, no matter how profitable an endeavor it was. He supported me at Harvard, thinking eventually I would accept my fate and do as he wished.”

  “Obviously, you did not,” I said.

  “No, and I made a great show of telling him this immediately after receiving my degree. He was furious. That very night, he changed his will, completely cutting me out and, at the same time, he stopped my allowance. It was the latter that made it impossible for me to cover my debts. Two days later he was dead from a stroke.”

  “I’m very sorry,” I said.

  “Thank you, but I am not worthy of your condolences,” he said. “Finding myself unable to settle my accounts, I made a terrible decision. I was out with a group of friends and one of them, the eldest son of a family of fabulous wealth—you would recognize the name—had taken rather too much to drink. Seeing the state he was in, I helped him back to his rooms and put him into bed, where he passed out at once. I removed his coat and his boots and then”—he closed his eyes, ashamed—“I noticed his watch had come out of his waistcoat pocket. It was an old thing, a family heirloom: gold, quite heavy, and attached to a thick chain and fob. I took it from him, knowing I could pawn it for an amount that would pay off my outstanding debts. And then, it was as if I was possessed by some awful spirit and no longer in control of my actions. I took the money from his purse and everything else of value that I could carry easily from his rooms.”

  “And everyone knew you were the thief,” Colin said.

  “Yes. I was the one who took him home. I never tried to deny it and am mortified I was capable of doing such a thing. Word spread, of course. Who would want to hire a man who would steal from one of his closest friends? No matter how desperate I was—and, believe me, I was in dire financial straits—I ought never have stooped to stealing from a friend.”