Hunger

by Aonghus Fallon

features suddenly inscrutable. ‘Yes. Would you wish to see your uncle thus dismembered? Or have to recount the sight to your two cousins?’

  ‘If our miscreant was using this place as his hideout, he may have left some clues behind him – clues which will help us establish his identity once and for all.’

  ‘You shot him, Jasper.’

  ‘In the leg.’

  ‘Nonetheless. I do not think he will live to see the morning.’

  ‘All the more reason to find him and interrogate him, or he will be beyond our reach forever.’

  ‘I am not sure that would be a bad thing.’

  Grieves’ exasperation overcame him. ‘They have a saying about you in your native Lombardy, Gabriele. Or so another Italian acquaintance told me. They say you always get your man, even if your principal reason for catching him is pure curiosity.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Why hesitate now, when our prey is almost within our grasp? It is most unlike you.’

  Bonfigliotti shrugged, a look of deepest melancholy creeping across those strong, hook-nosed features, his dark eyes never leaving Grieves’ face. ‘Some stones are best left unturned, amico mio,’ he said softly. ‘Or as we say in my home country – Chi cerca mal, mal trova.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘The man responsible for desecrating those graves and your uncle’s beloved telescope is already dying. Is that not enough? He dies by your hand, after all.’

  For a moment Grieves considered ignoring Bonfigliotti’s advice: not making that descent seemed very like cowardice to him. Yet he only had to look down those steps to be filled once more with the same chilly unease.

  ‘We should block the door in the unlikely event that our malefactor returns to finish what he began,’ Bonfigliotti went on.

  ‘But –’

  ‘A precaution, nothing more. Then tomorrow morning I recommend you get several of your cousins’ employees to brick up the entrance as soon as possible. This way, you can rest easy, safe in the knowledge your uncle’s remains will never be disturbed again.’

  Grieves sighed. ‘As you wish.’

  Two pillars flanked the mausoleum door. After searching a nearby wood, the men found several branches thick and heavy enough for their purpose. These they then squeezed in behind the pillars and in front of the door. So tightly were the branches wedged it would have taken considerable strength to work them free.

  This task accomplished, they returned to the house. On their way they encountered several of the men who guarded the estate and who had heard Grieves’ shots. Grieves explained how they had been patrolling the estate of their own volition, seen a man clamber over one wall and shot him before he could enter, and expressed himself confident that their mysterious trespasser had been mortally injured. ‘He will not be bothering my cousins again.’

  The following morning he spoke to the gardener and his helpers – although he said nothing of this meeting to his cousins – and the mausoleum door was bricked up.

  And that was that. No more graves were vandalised, nor were there any more attempts to destroy Sir Cecil's telescope. Yet an unspoken question has cast its shadow over the two’s friendship. Grieves both dreads and craves the answer, while knowing Bonfigliotti will never provide it unless expressly asked to do so. And it would seem his dread has got the upper hand of him – at least, for the time being – for he has not visited Italy since, and the correspondence between himself and the little philosopher has dwindled to a trickle.

  He is much changed. The other members of the club which he attends from time to time say he has become a gloomy fellow. Once he could be relied on for the strength of his opinions whenever the turpitude of the Irish peasantry was being discussed. However these days he is strangely circumspect and they are all most disappointed.