It was one of these staircases that Fosco now descended. The air was chill, the walls slick with damp. The count slowed further: the hand-cut steps were slippery, and if he fell there would be nobody to hear his cries.
At last, the staircase ended in a labyrinth of narrow vaults, lined in ancient brick. Niches were cut into the walls, and each contained a skeleton: some long-deceased family member or—more likely, given the sheer number—fallen allies from wars fought a millennium ago. The air was bad here, and Fosco's torch guttered as he threaded his complex path.
As he penetrated deeper into the maze, the ancient walls grew more uneven. He passed several places where they had fallen away from the rock, leaving heaps of scattered bricks. Skeletons lay in thick profusion, as if dumped and abandoned where they lay, the bones chewed and scattered by rats.
The vault finally ended in a cul-de-sac. The darkness here was so thick, so complete, that Fosco's torch barely penetrated. He took another step forward, waved the torch in a cautious arc into the last recess ahead of him.
The guttering flame revealed the figure of Agent Pendergast, head lolled forward onto his chest. His face was scratched and bleeding in a dozen places. His normally immaculate black suit was shredded and dirty, the jacket lying in a heap at his feet. His hand-tailored English shoes were covered in thick Tuscan mud. He appeared unconscious and would have sunk to the ground before Fosco if not for the heavy chain bound tightly across his chest. This was fixed to an iron staple set into the limestone wall, and was padlocked to a second iron staple on Pendergast's far side. His wrists hung limply at his sides, secured by additional lengths of chain fixed to the rear wall of the niche.
Fosco's first sweep of the torch had been a careful one. He had learned, even now, not to underestimate his opponent. But Pendergast was clearly immobilized, helpless. Emboldened, the count brought the torch forward again.
As the light of the torch crossed his face, Pendergast stirred. His eyes fluttered open.
Instantly, Fosco stepped back. "Agent Pendergast?" he crooned. "Aloysius? Are we awake?"
Pendergast did not answer, but his eyes remained open. He moved his limbs weakly, flexed his manacled hands.
"Please forgive me, but I'm afraid the restraints are necessary. As you shall soon understand."
When there was no response, the count continued. "You no doubt feel weak, barely able to stir. And you may be experiencing a certain degree of amnesia. Phenobarbital does have that effect at times: it seemed the easiest way to return you to the castle without undue exertions. So allow me to refresh your memory. You and the good sergeant D'Agosta grew tired of my hospitality and desired to leave. I, naturally, took objection. There was a nasty struggle, I'm afraid, in which my beloved Pinketts perished. You had deposited some paperwork I was obliged to reclaim. Then came your escape attempt. Sergeant D'Agosta made good his escape, I fear. But the important thing is that you’re back, my dear Agent Pendergast: back safely again in the bosom of Castel Fosco! And I insist you remain here, as my guest. No, really—I'll hear no objection."
Fosco placed the torch carefully into an iron wall mounting. "I beg your pardon for the scant accommodation. Still, these chambers are not without their natural charm. You'll notice the white webwork that gleams from the cavern walls? It's nitre, my dear Pendergast—you of all people should appreciate the literary allusion. And thus understand what is to follow."
And to underscore this, the count slipped his hand into his waistcoat and slowly withdrew a trowel.
Staring at it, Pendergast's dull, drug-heavy eyes gleamed briefly.
"Aha!" the count cried, pleased. "It is not lost on you! Let us then proceed with all haste." And turning to one side, he swept away a heap of tumbled bones, revealing a large quantity of freshly slaked mortar.
Using the trowel, he laid a thick line of mortar along the front lip of the recess. Then he moved to one of the piles of collapsed brick and, two at a time, brought the bricks back to the niche, laying them carefully in a line atop the mortar. Within a few minutes, the first course of bricks was in place and Fosco was troweling another layer of mortar along its top.
"How wonderful these bricks are!" he said as he worked. "They are many centuries old, made from the very clay of the hillside. See how massive: none of your trifling English bricks for Fosco! I've called for a great deal of lime in the mortar—nearly two parts lime to each part sand—but then I want your final habitation to be as strong as possible. I want it to last through the ages, my dear Pendergast. I want it to last until the final trump is sounded!"
Pendergast said nothing. But his drug-clouded eyes had cleared. They watched Fosco work with an almost feline stoicism—if, Fosco reflected, stoicism was the correct word. Finishing the second course of bricks, he paused to return the gaze.
"I've been preparing this for some time," he said. "Quite some time, in fact. You see, ever since our first meeting—at the memorial service for Jeremy Grove, when we had our little disagreement over the Ghirlandaio panel—I realized you were the most formidable opponent I had ever faced."
He paused, waiting. But still Pendergast said nothing, did not move except to blink his eyelids. And so Fosco returned to his work and—with the energy of a sudden surge of anger—laid the third, fourth, and fifth course of bricks.
When he laid the last brick of the sixth course in place, he paused once more. The brief anger had passed and he was again himself. The wall reached now to Pendergast's waist. Throwing back the tails of his coat, Fosco perched daintily on the old pile of bricks to rest. His gaze fell almost kindly on the prisoner.
"You'll note I'm laying the bricks in Flemish bond, alternating the headers with the stretchers," he said. "Beautiful, is it not? I could have been a mason, perhaps, had I so chosen. Of course, building such a wall is time-consuming. Consider it my final gift. My parting gift. You see, once the last brick is in place, it will not take long—perhaps a day, perhaps two, depending on how much air seeps through these ancient walls. I am no sadist. Your death will not be unduly prolonged—though I imagine slow suffocation in the dark might not be quite as merciful as one would hope. It cannot be helped."
He sat for a moment, catching his breath. Then he went on, his voice now almost meditative.
"Do not think, Signor Pendergast, I take this responsibility lightly. I realize that by entombing you here, I rob the world of a great intellect. It will be a duller place without you. However, it will also be safer, for me and those like me: men and women who would prefer to pursue their destinies unfettered by laws devised by their inferiors."
He glanced into the recess. With the wall half complete, the niche lay in deepest shadow. Only the gaunt lines of Pendergast's bloodied face reflected in the torchlight.
The count looked at him quizzically. "Still nothing? Very well: let us continue." And he pulled himself to his feet.
The next three tiers were laid in silence. Finally, as Fosco put the last brick of the ninth course in position and smoothed fresh mortar across its top, Pendergast spoke. The wall had reached the level of his pale eyes, and his voice echoed hollowly inside the new-made vault.
"You must not do this," he said. His voice had none of its usual creamy, almost lazy precision.
This, Fosco knew, was a side effect of the phenobarbital. "But my dear Pendergast, it is done!" He troweled off the mortar and returned to the brick pile.
The tenth course was half laid before Pendergast spoke once more. "There is something I must do. Something unfinished, of great importance to the world. A member of my family is in a position to do great harm. I must be allowed to stop him."
Fosco halted, listening.
"Let me complete that task. Then I will return to you. You… you may then dispose of me as you see fit. I give you my word as a gentleman."
Fosco laughed. "Do you take me for a fool? I am to believe you shall return, willingly, like Regulus to Carthage, to meet your end? Bah! Even if you do keep your word, when should I expect you? Twenty
or thirty years from now, when you have grown old and tired of life?"
No answer came from the darkness of the niche.
"But this task you mention. It intrigues me. A family member, you say? Give me more details."
"Free me first."
"That is impossible. But come—I see we are simply bandying words. And I weary of this task." And more quickly now, Fosco finished the tenth course and started on the eleventh and last.
It was when only a single stone remained to be fitted and mortared into the wall that Pendergast spoke again. "Fosco"—the voice was faint, sepulchral, as if emerging from the deepest recesses of a tomb—"I ask you, as a gentleman and a human being. Do not place that brick."
"Yes. It does seem a shame." And Fosco hefted the final brick in his hand. "But I'm afraid the time has come for us to part. I thank you for the pleasure of your company these last few days. I say to you, not arrivederla, but addio." And he forced the last stone into place.
As he smoothed away the last bit of excess mortar, Fosco heard—or thought he heard—a sound from the tomb within. A low moan, or exhalation of breath. Or was it just the wind, crying through the ancient catacombs? He pressed his head to the freshly laid wall and listened intently.
But there was nothing further.
Fosco stepped back, kicked a pile of scattered bones into position before the wall, then grabbed the torch and made his way hastily through the rat's nest of tunnels to the ancient stairwell. Reaching it, he began to climb—a dozen steps, two dozen, three—heading for the surface and the warm evening sunlight, leaving the restless netherworld of shadows far behind.
{ 85 }
D'Agosta sat silently in the backseat of the car as it moved up the winding mountain road. The countryside was as beautiful as it had been two days before: the hills clad in autumn raiment, shining rust and gold under the early morning sun. D'Agosta barely noticed. He was staring up at the cruel-looking keep of Castel Fosco, just now rising into view above its spar of gray rock. Merely seeing the castle again brought a chill not even the convoy of police cars could allay.
He shifted the weight of the canvas bag from one leg to the other. Inside was Fosco's diabolical weapon. The chill evaporated before the furious, carefully controlled anger that burned within him. D'Agosta tried to channel that anger: he'd need it for the encounter to come. The maddening, excruciating twelve-hour delay was finally over. The paperwork, the warrant, had finally come through; the bureaucracy had been satisfied. Now he was back here, on the enemy's home ground. He had to stay calm, stay in control. He knew he had only one shot to save Pendergast—if indeed Pendergast was still alive—and he wasn't going to blow it by losing his cool.
Colonnello Esposito, sitting beside him, took a last deep drag on his cigarette, then ground it out in an ashtray. He'd been quiet during the drive, moving only occasionally to light a new cigarette. Now he, too, glanced out the window.
"A most formidable residence," he said.
D'Agosta nodded.
Esposito pulled out a fresh cigarette, reconsidered, replaced it, and turned to D'Agosta. "This Fosco you describe seems a shrewd character. It will be necessary to catch him red-handed, secure the evidence ourselves. We will therefore go in fast."
"Yes. Good."
Esposito ran a hand over his brushed-back gray hair. "He is also clearly one who leaves nothing to chance. I worry that Pendergast may be…" His voice trailed off.
"If we hadn't waited twelve hours—"
The colonnello shook his head. "One cannot change the way things are " He fell silent while the cars passed the castle's ruined outer gate and made their way along the avenue of cypress trees. Then he stirred again. "One request, Sergeant."
"What?"
"Let me do the talking, if you please. I will make sure the conversation is in English. Fosco speaks English well?"
"Perfectly."
D'Agosta was more exhausted than he ever remembered being. Every limb ached, and his skin was scratched and torn in countless places. Only his iron resolve to rescue Pendergast, his fear about what his friend might be undergoing at the hands of the count, kept him going. Maybe he's still alive, he thought. Back in the same cell. Of course he is. He must be.
D'Agosta prayed briefly, fervently, that this would prove the case. The alternative was too dreadful to contemplate.
The cars pulled into the graveled parking area just outside the inner wall. Here, in the deep shadow of the stone buttresses, it was chilly. D'Agosta opened the car door and stepped out briskly despite his aches and pains.
"The Fiat," he said. "Our rented car. It's gone."
"What model?" Esposito asked.
"A Stylo, black. License IGP 223."
Esposito turned to one of his men and barked an order.
The castle seemed deserted, almost preternaturally quiet. The colonnello nodded to his men, then led the way quickly up the stone steps to the banded doors.
This time, the doors to the inner ward did not open by themselves. In fact, it took five minutes—and increasingly agitated raps by the colonnello—before they groaned slowly open. There, on the far side, stood Fosco. His gaze traveled over the knot of policemen, coming to rest at last on D'Agosta. He smiled.
"Why, my heavens! It's Sergeant D'Agosta. How are you finding Italy?"
D'Agosta did not reply. Just the sight of the grotesque count brought on a rush of loathing. Keep it cool, he reminded himself.
Fosco was puffing just a bit but otherwise seemed his jovial, unflappable self. "Please excuse my delay in responding. I wasn't expecting any company today." Then he turned toward the colonnello. "But we haven't yet been introduced. I am Fosco."
"I am Colonnello Orazio Esposito of the Nucleo Investigativo," Esposito said brusquely. "We have a warrant to search these premises. I would ask you to step aside, sir."
"A warrant!" Surprise bloomed on the count's face. "What's it about?"
Esposito ignored him, walking past, barking orders to his men. He turned to the count. "My men will need access to all parts of the castle."
"Of course!" The count hastened across the lawn of the inner ward, past the purling fountain, and into the fastness of the dark and brooding keep, putting on a remarkable front of surprise and alarm, mingled with subservient cooperation.
D'Agosta maintained a stony silence, keeping his canvas bag well away from Fosco. He noticed that, this time, none of the massive doors scraped closed behind them.
The count led the way down the central gallery and into a room D'Agosta hadn't seen before: a large and elegant library, its walls covered with ancient volumes, leather spines stamped and gilded. A fire crackled merrily on the hearth.
"Please, gentlemen," Fosco said, ushering them in. "Have a seat. Can I offer you sherry? A cigar?"
"I'm afraid there is no time for pleasantries," Esposito said. He reached into his pocket, withdrew a sheet of paper bearing official stamps, laid it on the table. "Here is the warrant. We will search the basements and cellars first, then work our way up."
The count had taken a cigar from a carved wooden box. "Of course I shall cooperate, but I'd like to know what it's about."
"Sergeant D'Agosta has leveled very grave charges against you."
"Against me?" the count said. He glanced at D'Agosta. "Whatever are you talking about?"
"Kidnapping, attempted murder—and the accusation that you are still holding Pendergast."
The surprise on Fosco's face deepened. "But this—this is outrageous!" He lowered the cigar, looking from D'Agosta to Esposito and back again. "Sergeant, is this true? Do you make such accusations?"
"Let's go," said D'Agosta impatiently. Although he kept his tone level, he seethed inwardly at the masterful acting. The count truly looked like a man struggling with shock and disbelief.
"Well. If that is the case, who am I to protest?" Fosco examined the cigar, snipped off the end with a tiny silver clipper, lit it. "But you may put away that warrant, Officer. I give you and your men free
run of the castle. Every door is open to you. Search where you will. Please allow me to assist you in any way I can."
Esposito turned briskly to some of the carabinieri, speaking in Italian. The men saluted, fanned out, disappeared.
Esposito turned back to D'Agosta. "Sergeant, perhaps you could take us to the room where you were incarcerated for the night. Count, you will accompany us."
"I would insist upon it. The Focus are an ancient and noble family, and we value our honor above all else. These charges must be addressed, and settled, immediately." He glanced back at D'Agosta with just a trace of indignation.
D'Agosta led the way down the gallery, through the drawing room, and into the long procession of elegant chambers. The count followed, walking in his peculiar light-footed way, pointing out various works of art and sights of interest for the colonnello, who ignored him. The remaining two carabinieri brought up the rear.
Then came a point where D'Agosta lost his way. He looked around, stepped forward, stopped again. There had been a door in this stuccoed wall—hadn't there?
"Sergeant?" Esposito said.
"Perhaps I could be of assistance?" Fosco volunteered.
D'Agosta glanced through one doorway, backtracked, looked through another. It had been less than twenty-four hours; he couldn't have forgotten. Could he? He advanced, touched the stucco, but it was old, crumbling, anything but fresh.
"The sergeant said the apartment where he was held prisoner was in the tower itself," the colonnello told Fosco.
The count cast a puzzled gaze on the colonnello, turned to D'Agosta. "There is only one apartment in the tower, but it is not this way."
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