The Complete Kate Benedict Cozy British Mysteries

by Carrie Bedford

  “So you think the vault is in Florence?” I asked. “Underground somewhere?”

  The old man shrugged. “Maybe, but I have no idea where. If indeed it even exists.”

  “Did your intelligence friend find out any more?” asked Claire. “Anything about the Custodians? Who was the man with the ring? Were you ever able to identify him?”

  Gardi shook his head. “No. My friend did what he could, but I got the impression that he was warned off. He suddenly stopped talking to me. We met for lunch just once after that and he was scared, wouldn’t talk about the Custodians with me and told me to drop it, that it would be dangerous for my family and me.”

  Claire and I looked at each other. “Did you drop it?” I asked him.

  Gardi thought for a moment or two, gazing into the fire. “I didn’t at first, but then I got married, had a child. I had no desire to bring danger to my house. So I gave up, too. Occasionally, I worried that I had involved Captain Hamilton in something bad by sending him the book, but you know how life is. I got busy and had to keep working to support my family. The wartime memories faded, the shooting that night seemed almost unreal. This is the first time I’ve talked of it in a very long time.”

  Claire smiled. “We are very grateful to you for sharing your memories with us, and I’m glad that you decided to stay clear of the Custodians. We have every reason to believe that they’re very dangerous. They want this key—”

  “Claire, we should be going.” I interrupted her and got to my feet. I liked Gardi and I was feeling guilty that we’d laid a trail to his door. The less we told him the better. If by any chance the Custodians found him he would know nothing that could bring harm to him or his family. He didn’t have an aura. I wanted to keep it that way.

  I leaned over to shake the old man’s hand. “Signor Gardi, we appreciate your time. We ought to leave you now to rest. Thank you again for seeing us.”

  Claire bent down to hug him. He smiled at her. “I’m glad to think of the captain having a granddaughter, especially such a beautiful one.”

  I put on my jacket and picked up my bag, my mind on what he’d told us.

  “There was one more thing,” he said with a frown, obviously trying to pull his thoughts together. “What was it? Oh yes, the one thing my friend did find out was that the sergeant, Vanucci, got away.”

  Claire and I both gasped at the same time. She stared at Gardi. “What did you say the sergeant’s name was?” she asked.

  “Alessandro Vanucci. I think that was it. Of course, we just called him Sergeant. What is wrong, my dear? I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

  “Vanucci,” Claire said. “That’s Dante’s family name.”

  Gardi coughed. “I’m sorry if I’ve caused distress,” he said. His voice was shaky.

  “No, no,” said Claire. “It’s not your fault at all. Please, tell us what else you know. You said that the sergeant escaped? Do you know where he went?”

  Gardi shook his head. “My friend told me that he got out using the ratlines. You know what that was? A network of escape routes that got hundreds of Nazis out of Europe towards the end and after the war. It is common enough knowledge, I think, that the Vatican was highly involved in running it. Anyway, I heard from my friend that Vanucci had left Italy.

  “It bothered me that the sergeant got out. I was surprised that he had the contacts and the money to use the network. Obviously he was more than just a common thief who got caught smuggling. Maybe he was a Custodian himself.”

  The old man’s head began to droop towards his chest. Constanza appeared at the doorway. “He needs to rest, but he’ll be so glad you came to see him,” she said. “It’ll be all he will talk about for the next few days.”

  Just then Gardi startled himself awake and smiled at us.

  “You’ll have to excuse me. I tire easily. I’ll be ninety-three next week, you know. If I make it until then.”

  “I know you will,” I said, patting his hand.

  19

  The afternoon light was fading and a storm threatened as we left signor Gardi’s house. Slate-colored clouds tinged with purple rolled across the sky above the red-tiled roof. Claire looked back over her shoulder as we let ourselves out of the small iron gate, pausing for a moment. Federico threw away a cigarette butt, stamping on it with his heel.

  “Can we walk into town?” she asked. “I need some air to clear my thoughts.”

  Federico and I fell into step beside her. I was still reeling from the revelation that Dante had the same last name as the sergeant who’d led the smuggling ring. I could only imagine how Claire must be feeling.

  “So,” I said. “That thing about Dante’s name.”

  Claire lengthened her stride, forging her way up the hill as though her life depended on it.

  “It could be a coincidence,” I said in a weak attempt to console her. In my mind, it was impossible that this could be a fluke.

  “Dante is an art dealer.” Claire was walking fast and talking faster. “His name is the same as that of the art-smuggling sergeant. And he knows me. A few too many coincidences, don’t you think?”

  We covered another hundred meters at record-breaking pace.

  “So why didn’t he kidnap me or kill me or whatever he wanted to do weeks ago?” Claire said. “Why now?”

  “Because you have the key now. It’s possible he started watching you when your father first started asking questions about the book. And he’s been waiting since your father died to see if the key turned up. He wouldn’t harm you while you didn’t have it.”

  “You think that my father met with him?”

  “Your dad’s meeting was in Rome, not Florence, wasn’t it? And Falcone talked about someone in Rome. Does Dante have any connections there?”

  “I don’t think so, but who knows.” Her words sputtered out between deep breaths and she slowed the pace a bit, to my relief. I ran a lot, but not usually in leather boots.

  “It’s obvious now,” she said. “For months, Dante kept tabs on me, seeing me enough to know what I was doing. After my dad died, he called me almost every day. He asked about Ethan a lot, come to think of it. Where he lived, where he worked, whether he was planning any trips to Florence, as he’d like to meet him. And always so bloody charming, the bastard.”

  “Did he ever mention the key?”

  “Never.” On her pale skin, the bruise on her cheek was as dark and purple as the clouds overhead.

  “The good news is that Gardi’s story confirms that your grandfather wasn’t a Custodian. And his reference to Vanucci gives us a solid lead,” I said.

  “A solid lead to Dante, yes. Do you think Dante has Ethan?” Claire paused her exercise drill and turned to face me.

  “It’s possible,” I said.

  “When we get to Florence, we confront Dante,” Claire said. “We have the key, which we can use to negotiate with him. What do you think?”

  “No. We go to the Carabinieri station, and get Falcone’s colleague to help us.”

  We were speaking in English. Federico was watching us but he didn’t say anything.

  “If we get the police involved, Dante might run,” Claire said. “And if he has Ethan, he might… he might kill him.”

  “We should go to the Carabinieri first.” Ever since we’d come to the conclusion that Claire’s father’s death hadn’t been an accident, I’d had an uneasy feeling that Ethan might already be dead. If he were, and we went straight to Dante, we’d be walking into a trap with no leverage.

  “We need to get to Florence quickly,” Claire said, striding out again. I hurried after her. When we heard a bus straining its way up the hill behind us, Federico flagged it down and checked it was going to Bologna. We got on and Federico paid our fares while I sat down with Claire near the front. It smelled different from a London bus, with a faint odor of cigarette smoke and garlic, blended with dusty upholstery.

  As the bus pulled away with a grinding of gears, Claire grabbed my hand.

 
“Thank you,” she said. Surprised, I turned my head to look at her.

  “It was your idea to come here, to talk to Luca Gardi,” she said. “I thought it would be a waste of time, but it wasn’t.”

  “That’s okay.” I squeezed her hand. “I’m just sorry we found out that Dante might be involved.”

  Claire’s lip trembled. “Yes, me too. I’m… well anyway… at least we know who we’re up against now. And if he has Ethan… God, I hope he does. It’s a better scenario than any other one I’ve been able to think of.”

  My phone buzzed. It was a text from Leo. “I’ve got it!” he wrote. “Cinquegiùnovedasinistra.” I stared at it, confused, for a few seconds, my mind still in turmoil from the revelations at Gardi’s house. Then I realized what it was. Leo had broken the code. This was the deciphered text. I sent a thank you to him before giving my phone to Claire.

  “Read it,” I said to Claire. “That’s what Leo decoded.” I leaned over to look at the words. “Five down, nine from left.” I translated out loud. I wondered what on earth that could mean.

  “How did he do it?”

  “I worked on it with him while we were on the train,” I said, going on to explain how I’d found the list of letters in her father’s notebook. “Leo’s a real genius with numbers and he’s taught cryptography, so he knew how to tackle it.”

  Claire looked down at her hands in her lap. “I owe you an apology,” she said. “Instead of lashing out at you about auras, I should have been thanking you for being with me, for caring about Ethan, for putting your own life in danger. I’ve been a bitch. Can you forgive me?”

  “Of course.” I put my arm around her shoulder. “We’re in this together. It’s going to be all right.”

  I wished I believed my lie about things being all right. Claire’s aura was moving even faster now, circles of air spinning over her head. There was no doubt in my mind that death could come at any time. Were we doing the right thing in going to Florence? Dante seemed to be the source of danger to her, and we were heading straight towards him. But Florence was the only destination I could think of. With Federico’s help, we could get into Claire’s flat to retrieve her passport. Falcone’s Carabinieri friend would protect us. And my dad was in Florence. I ached to be home, to be sitting in the kitchen talking with him.

  When we reached Bologna, we were lucky to find a commuter train leaving for Florence in five minutes. Claire’s phone rang just after we’d settled in the middle carriage. She glanced at it, her mouth set hard. “Dante,” she said. “I’m not going to answer it.”

  I nodded my agreement. The less he knew about where we were the better.

  The storm that had threatened us in Pianoro had not yet broken. Clouds scudded across the darkening sky, creating patterns of light and dark across Claire’s face. The shock of learning that her boyfriend had been using her showed on her pale skin.

  To take my mind off it all, I retrieved the notebook and papers from my bag, leafing through the pages without really seeing them. The line drawing of the strange rectangles came into focus and I stared at it for a couple of minutes. I remembered thinking it looked like a stone wall out in the English countryside. But now I thought it could be a stone wall anywhere. I counted the rectangles, remembering what Leo had sent us. Five down and nine from the left. My finger rested on a thin block. I was sure this was what the cypher text referred to. But this was just a fraction of the puzzle. Where was the wall?

  Too tired to think clearly, I put everything back in my bag. I watched the scenery roll by. We’d traversed the Apennines and now, under the softened light of dusk, we were passing through the cypress-dotted hills of Tuscany. Rain began to fall as we rattled through the outskirts of Florence, water running across the windows in tiny, fast moving rivulets that captured the color of lights from nearby houses and traffic signs.

  When we pulled into Santa Maria Novella I felt a familiar frisson of excitement. I loved this station. It had been the starting point of many journeys to cities all over Europe, some with my parents, some with friends or with Josh. This evening, it was as busy as always, crammed with tourists, business people and students carrying backpacks. We crossed the main concourse and left through the front exit. Under the overhanging roof of the station building, a queue of people sheltered from the torrential rain, waiting for taxis that failed to materialize.

  “Which is the quickest way to the Carabinieri station?” I asked Federico.

  “It’s just a short walk,” Federico said. He gestured to the people in the taxi queue. “That will take forever.”

  “Okay,” I said, linking arms with Claire. She looked so fragile I thought the wind would blow her over. We hurried down the steps towards the road with Federico on our heels. The street lamps, wreathed in mist, cast a feeble yellow light mottled with dark shadows. Scraps of paper flew in the wind and rain fell like cold arrows on my back while we waited on the curb for the lights to change so that we could cross the busy intersection. I wished they’d hurry. I was getting soaked.

  Suddenly I was aware of someone standing close, almost at my shoulder. I didn’t even have time to turn round before a black Mercedes braked to a halt right in front of us. Whoever was behind me dug something into my ribs.

  “I have a gun,” he explained helpfully. “Get in the car.”

  I turned then, to see Federico crumpled on the pavement, but he was moving, trying to get to his feet. There were no other pedestrians around. The only sign of life was the fast-moving traffic that sped past the stopped car, drivers honking horns to show their displeasure that it was blocking one lane of the road.

  I started yelling, screaming as loudly as I could. “Help! Call the police!” But I doubted anyone could hear me over the roar of traffic and the blare of the horns.

  “I told you to get in,” the man repeated, pressing his gun hard into my back. I stopped shouting.

  “Good decision,” he said. “Now get in.” I slid into the plush leather seat with Claire scrambling in after me. The gunman climbed into the passenger seat and hadn’t even closed the door before the car pulled away. I met the driver’s eyes in the rear view mirror and got goosebumps when I saw it was the man who’d followed me up to the dome at the cathedral.

  The car purred along the city streets, shielded from outside noise, but I had no intention of being quiet. I pounded on the back of the passenger seat. “Stop. Let us out right now.” The gunman ignored me, which made me even angrier. I yelled again, kicking the seat to get his attention. After a while I succeeded. He turned round, raised the gun and pointed it at Claire. “Shut the hell up,” he said. “One more word and she gets it.”

  I didn’t really believe that he’d shoot Claire, but the sight of that nasty little gun was enough to choke off any further outbursts. I slumped in my seat, fuming to myself. I couldn’t believe we’d been captured within minutes of arriving in Florence. Not after we’d done so well in evading our pursuers in Venice.

  I touched Claire’s arm, wanting to talk, to try to work out what had happened and what we were going to do, but she was huddled against the side of the car, her face in her hands.

  As bright lights briefly illuminated the interior of the car, I glanced out of the window to see that we were passing through the toll station at Certosa, about to take the A1 autostrada south in the direction of Rome.

  While we stopped to take a ticket, I looked over at a car at the pay station next to ours. The driver was loosening his tie as he waited for his ticket to pop out of the machine. A different life, I thought. A businessman going home from work, looking forward to dinner and time with his family. My imprisonment in the Mercedes seemed unreal.

  We were soon speeding along in the fast lane, the driver flashing his headlights at slower cars to warn them to move out of the way. The wheels sighed softly on the wet tarmac and the windscreen wipers moved steadily, blurring the taillights of cars in front of us into a red wash on the glass. It reminded me of Friday evening when I’d jumped into a t
axi to follow Ethan. That night seemed like a lifetime ago and yet it was only Monday. I checked the time. It was almost seven, the time I should have been boarding the flight back to London.

  “Where are you taking us?” I asked, pressing my bag to my chest, checking to make sure the key was still there, hidden in its leather pouch. The man in the suit didn’t bother to answer. My fingers on the paperback, I glanced up. Both of our captors were staring through the windscreen at the rain-drenched road. Carefully, I took out the book and removed the diagram of the wall, folded it into a small wad and put it in my coat pocket. I was about to do the same with the provenance list when I glimpsed the driver watching me in the rearview mirror. I slid the notebook back into my bag and rested it on the floor at my feet. We’d only gone another five minutes when the driver pulled off in a rest area. It was deserted at this time of night, lit by a single light. Claire grabbed my hand. Were the men going to shoot us and dump us here? Our captor got out of the car and opened the back door next to me. My chest was tight and it was hard to breathe. But he leaned over and wrapped a blindfold around my head, pulling it down over my eyes and tying it tightly. He snapped a plastic tie around my wrists behind my back and yanked hard on it. Then he did the same to Claire.

  Immobilized and blinded, we endured a painful ride before the car slowed and I heard the driver open his window to pay a toll. I’d been counting seconds for lack of anything else to do. I estimated we’d driven another thirty minutes, so we had to be somewhere near Montevarchi or Arezzo. Now we drove for another ten minutes before the car started winding its way up a steep hill. We were thrown around in the back as we navigated several hairpin bends at speed. The car slowed and I heard the tires crunching over gravel before we came to a halt. The back doors opened and the man leaned in to cut the ties and remove the blindfolds. “Get out,” he ordered. We’d parked in front of a stuccoed farmhouse that stood alone in the center of a circle of cypress trees. In an upstairs window, a single light shone.