02 The Grand Tour

by Patricia C. Wrede

  The man of the hour, the Conte di Capodoro, was no taller than Thomas, a very thin and bony man with a fine prow of a nose and hooded amber-brown eyes that reminded me of a falcon. His wife was even more distinguished in appearance and demeanor. She wore pure white silk in the most Grecian style imaginable, complete with a delicate gold fillet threaded through her dark curls. She had the small, remote smile of a classical statue of Venus. There was an air of stillness about her, and it seemed to me that her smile served to conceal her shyness, for she spoke scarcely a word. I wondered if the Conte di Capodoro had collected her because she resembled one of his antique beauties, or if she had adopted the classical style to please him.

  The formalities began when we were conducted to little chairs ranked in rows before a lectern. Once we were seated and gazing attentively, our host welcomed us officially. He then described the excellence of the Conte di Capodoro's character, the width and depth of his erudition, and the excellence of his taste. He thanked the Conte on behalf of the citizens of Milan for the gift of his collection of classical antiquities. He congratulated the Conte on his immense generosity, and he foretold the gratitude of all civilized people would ensure his name lived down the centuries, renowned and respected.

  After the Conte di Monti's address, the Conte di Capodoro rose and made a few gracious remarks expressing his gratitude. It was an excellent speech, short enough to leave us hoping for more, yet sufficiently grateful that all our host's courtesies were amply returned. We were then invited to make free with the refreshments and to stroll through the gardens.

  Thomas spoke quietly with the British Consul. James, Cecy, and I chatted with our hostess and one or two others as we drifted through the garden. To be strictly honest, James and Cecy chatted with the Contessa di Monti, and I concentrated on keeping my skirts from catching on the rosebushes as we walked.

  We came to a spot where the rosebushes met an avenue of topiary with a reflecting pool at the far end. It was as I bent to free myself from a particularly awkward thorn that my attention was drawn to a man and a woman standing by the reflecting pool. They were well out of earshot but close enough for me to see facial expressions.

  The man was very tall and extremely thin, and there was something horridly familiar about the set of his head and shoulders. He was speaking intently, from what I could see, with scarcely a pause to permit his companion an opportunity for a response. The woman smiled shyly up at him. This surprised me considerably, for the woman was the Contessa di Capodoro and the man (I will not sully the word gentleman was Mr. Strangle.

  As I freed myself from the rosebush, I took an involuntary step back the way we'd come. I don't think I made any sound whatsoever, yet my awkwardness caught Cecy's attention. She could tell something out of the ordinary had happened. "Kate, what's wrong?" Everyone else turned to stare at me, mild-eyed and curious as a herd of dairy cattle.

  "Nothing. Nothing at all," I said hastily. I smoothed my skirts and moved to rejoin the group. "Merely my usual clumsiness."

  After a few moments, chat resumed and our party drifted on aimlessly. My reply had deceived Cecy not at all. She and James closed in, one on either side of me. Under her breath, Cecy asked again, "What's wrong?"

  "Mr. Strangle is here," I murmured back.

  With the greatest effort of will, the three of us maintained our lackadaisical progress. "Where?" James asked.

  "Right there." I nodded toward the reflecting pool. The Contessa di Capodoro had retired, but Mr. Strangle still stood there, staring into the water like a heron waiting for its next fish.

  Cecy was decisive. "Kate, go find Thomas. James and I will follow Mr. Strangle at a distance. We will keep an eye on him without letting him know we're interested."

  James looked grim. "We'll follow him to kingdom come, if necessary."

  "It will be such good practice for you." Cecy looked from James to me. "Do hurry, Kate."

  I hurried.

  Thomas was right where I'd left him, part of the circle listening to the British Consul. He took one look at me and extricated himself from the circle with almost as much courtesy as efficiency. "What's happened?"

  I looked back the way I'd come. "Mr. Strangle is here. Cecy and James are keeping him in view without letting him know it. There is a most convenient topiary nearby, but if he walks far in any direction, I don't know how they will contrive to stay out of his sight."

  Thomas took only a moment to register that. I knew he'd grasped the situation completely when he said briskly, "Then we must hurry."

  He accompanied me through the gardens as quickly as we dared. It really would not have been wise to bustle noticeably. We did not wish to attract any unnecessary attention.

  Mr. Strangle was still beside the pool when we rejoined Cecy and James. I wondered why. Was he admiring his reflection in the water? Or was he waiting for someone? No one seemed to be taking the least notice of him. More unusually, he seemed to be taking very little notice of his own surroundings, not even leering at the fashionably dressed ladies who drifted past.

  "What's he doing here?" Thomas demanded under his breath. "He can't be an invited guest. Surely the Conte di Monti has better taste than that."

  "Perhaps he accompanied Theodore Daventer," Cecy suggested. "Theodore mentioned an uncle they were to meet. Perhaps that is what Harry Strangle is doing here, bear-leading the young man until he can turn him over to his uncle."

  "What is he doing now?" I asked.

  Mr. Strangle had reached into the pocket of his coat and produced something that looked remarkably like the end of a loaf of bread. It must have been quite stale, for he seemed to have trouble breaking off the small bits he sprinkled into the pool.

  James said, "It looks very much as though he's feeding the fish."

  "The blackguard. Let's have a word with him." Thomas took a careful look around to be sure that our host and hostess were nowhere in view, then marched across with James. The two of them flanked Mr. Strangle so neatly that he dropped the whole bread crust into the water in his surprise. Cecy and I joined them, keeping a safe distance.

  "I beg your pardon," Mr. Strangle exclaimed. He tried to retreat, but James and Thomas held his arms firmly. "What is the meaning of this?"

  "You disappointed me in Paris, leaving so abruptly," said Thomas. "I wanted a word with you but you ran away from me."

  "Can you wonder at it?" Mr. Strangle demanded. "You attacked me."

  Thomas was grim. "I never touched you."

  "I am uncommonly fleet of foot." Mr. Strangle looked as pleased with himself as usual. "That is the only reason you didn't."

  If anything, Thomas's grimness increased. "Now that we're all here together, you won't mind answering a few questions, will you? For a start, why did you murder Sir Hilary Bedrick?"

  I gazed at Thomas in surprise. This was quite a feat of illogic, even for Thomas. The effect it had on Mr. Strangle, however, was galvanic. He all but leapt into the air, and only the greatest effort from James and Thomas kept him securely in their grasp.

  "Who said that?" Mr. Strangle's terror seemed to contain a great deal of anger. "He's lying! I never saw him— not since last summer. I never saw him at all after he lost his magic."

  "He didn't lose his magic," said Cecy. "He had it taken from him by the Royal College of Wizards."

  James added, "And richly he deserved the punishment."

  "Someone thought he richly deserved to die. Were you the one who killed him?" Thomas put more pressure into his grip on Strangle's arm. "You knew he was dead. You know what happened to him."

  "Of course I heard he was murdered." Strangle swallowed hard. "That kind of word travels fast. But I had nothing to do with it. I didn't even know he was in France. I had my own affairs to worry about."

  Cecy looked severe. "That's something else we should discuss with you. But first things first."

  "What was Bedrick up to?" Thomas demanded.

  Mr. Strangle didn't answer the question. He eyed Thomas defian
tly. "You will have to use force, won't you? Hardly the done thing at a garden party. You will have to use fisticuffs, as you did in London. You won't object to beating a helpless man, I know. But the civilized guests here deserve to know what they're confronted with, once you reveal your true colors."

  "If anyone asks, it will be my pleasure to explain to them precisely what kind of fellow you are, you malignant swine." Thomas glanced over at James. "Can you hold him for me?"

  James nodded and took a firm grip on both Strangle's arms, but he looked distinctly uneasy about it.

  "Fine." Thomas stepped back and made a series of swift gestures, touching just a fingertip to Strangle's forehead, his chest, and finally his mouth. "Dicemi veritatem." I felt a soft throb from the ring on my left hand, which seemed to grow warm as he spoke. "What was Bedrick up to?"

  Mr. Strangle's voice came out as a soft whine. "He wanted revenge on you. More than that, I don't know. I had barely arrived in France myself."

  "Who killed Bedrick?" Thomas demanded.

  "I don't know." The whine trailed off uncertainly.

  Thomas considered a moment, then changed his tack. "Why did you come to France?"

  "I was engaged as a tutor for Theodore Daventer. The post became available unexpectedly. Thanks to you, I had no prospects in England, so I crossed the Channel and began my duties immediately."

  "Who engaged you?" Thomas asked.

  "The boy's uncle, William Mountjoy."

  We all looked surprised. Cecy exclaimed, "Mountjoy is Theodore's uncle? What a small place the world is after all."

  "Where did you cross the Channel?" Thomas asked. "And when?"

  "I crossed from Dover to Calais. Everyone does. I took up my duties there, after I was introduced to young Theodore and given a final interview with Lord Mountjoy."

  From a short distance away, the distinctive tones of the British Consul hailed us. "Schofield? What's the meaning of this? What are you doing?"

  With a sound of pure exasperation, Thomas snapped his fingers. The sensation of warmth faded from my wedding ring.

  "Let him go," Thomas told James.

  James relaxed his hold on Mr. Strangle, who turned to the British Consul as a drowning man welcomes his rescuer. "Thank you a thousand times for deliverance from this ruffian!"

  The Consul gazed confusedly from Thomas to Mr. Strangle and back. "I beg your pardon?"

  "This man attacked me. Not for the first time, either. He and his friend physically restrained me and then cast a spell of compulsion upon me. In front of ladies!" Mr. Strangle brushed imaginary dust off the lapels of his coat and squared his shoulders as if to reassure himself that he was truly free. "I demand retribution. I demand justice."

  "Er. Yes." The British Consul thought this over. "What did this spell compel you to do?"

  "I wanted the truth from him," Thomas said. "I've grown tired of his lies and evasions." Thomas gave the Consul an abridged account of Mr. Strangle's misdeeds. "I wanted answers to some questions. Honest answers."

  The British Consul was unmoved. "Understandable, I suppose, Schofield. But you must know it is hardly polite to go around employing spells of compulsion at a social event. Damned bad form."

  Thomas looked contrite. "I'm sorry, Sir."

  The British Consul turned to Mr. Strangle. "I was fortunate enough to be consulted by the Conte and Contessa di Monti when this event was proposed. I count myself tolerably familiar with the names on the guest list. I must confess that your name, Sir, was not among them."

  Mr. Strangle took an involuntary step backward. "Your memory is at fault then. For I am an invited guest."

  "Are you? I'm so sorry to imply anything else. The matter will be a simple one to clear up. Let's go ask our hostess, shall we?"

  "That's really not necessary—" Strangle took another step back and encountered a rosebush. "Ouch. Ow! Damn!" He turned and tore himself away from the thorns of the rose, then sprinted—there is no other word for it—down the lane of topiary and away.

  "What an extraordinary fellow," said the British Consul. He turned a disapproving eye on Thomas. "You're not to do it again, do you understand? Whatever it was you did."

  Thomas looked entirely chastened. "No, Sir. Under no circumstances. I'm sorry."

  "Good. Apology accepted. Now I really must go smooth things over with the Contessa di Monti. She won't be pleased, either by your activities or by her uninvited guest." He took his leave of us all and marched back up the way he'd come.

  We watched him go in silence.

  "What a pity we didn't just follow Strangle home and accost him there." Cecy sighed a little. "Still, it shouldn't be hard to find Theodore Daventer in a city this size."

  James looked more cheerful. "At any rate, it spares us the ordeal of slinking along in Strangle's wake."

  "You were doing very well before Thomas joined us," Cecy assured him. "All you need is a bit more practice."

  From the deposition of Mrs. James Tarleton, &c.

  I continued to find Mr. Strangle's unexpected appearance at the garden party extremely puzzling. The Conte and Contessa di Monti were persons of considerable importance in Milan, and while it had become clear to me that Continental manners were a good deal more easy than those in England, it still seemed very odd for Mr. Strangle to sneak uninvited into their party. (No more than Thomas could I bring myself to believe that he had received an invitation.) There seemed no reason for him to have done so. For a time I considered the possibility that the castle grounds contained some ancient temple or monument that he wished to get into, but I could find no reference to such a thing in any of the books Lady Sylvia had so thoughtfully provided, so I was forced to abandon the idea.

  Considering ancient temples, however, led me to think of other antiquities. A few of the most impressive pieces from the Conte di Capodoro's collection had been on display at the party, but amid the excitement attendant on Mr. Strangle's appearance, none of us had seen them. I determined to remedy this, on the triple grounds that something in the collection might have been Mr. Strangle's objective; that even if the articles had nothing to do with Mr. Strangle, my Papa would be greatly interested in hearing a report of them; and that, in any case, visiting the collection would be something to do besides listening to yet another opera.

  Following the party, Mr. Strangle had vanished as thoroughly as ever. James and Thomas returned to their manhunt, and so could not join the expedition to see the collection the Conte had donated. Thomas therefore told Piers to accompany Kate on any outings that he, Thomas, could not join, pointing out that a bodyguard did little good if he was on the other side of town from the person he was supposed to be guarding. I was inclined to agree with James's assessment that Thomas had a bee in his brain, as there seemed no particular reason to think that Mr. Strangle would approach Kate, but Kate acquiesced with little objection. So we were five on the day we drove down to the building that now housed the antiquities: myself, Kate, our maids, and Piers.

  The doorman examined our tickets with care before letting us join the crowd already inside. The building had evidently been hastily refurbished to suit its new function, for the rooms smelled of fresh whitewash and strong soap. The pieces of the collection had been laid out haphazardly on tables in a series of rather small rooms off a central hallway. Iron belt buckles and chipped pottery mixed indiscriminately with stones and small lead tablets bearing nearly illegible inscriptions. Very little had been labeled, none of it in English.

  The curator, a rather harried-looking gentleman in a green-and-gold uniform, roamed from room to room, attempting to explain the fine points of the exhibits to the visitors. Unfortunately, his English was not good. After two unsuccessful attempts to enlighten us, he gave up and left us to our own devices.

  We passed through the first few rooms with almost unseemly speed. "It is a pity your Papa isn't here," Kate said. She frowned doubtfully at a small bronze object that looked rather like a tiny bowl stuck to the side of a small gravy boat. "He could
at least tell us what things are."

  "I believe that particular piece is an oil lamp, my lady," Kate's maid, Reardon, said diffidently. "From the era of the Republic, if I am not mistaken."

  "It certainly resembles the illustrations in Papa's manuscripts," I said. "Though it is far more battered. Have you seen such things before, then?"

  "A few, though I am more familiar with Egyptian antiquities than those of Rome," Reardon said with some reluctance. "My father was in service to Monsieur Champollion, the Egyptologist, for many years, and one cannot help but absorb some information when one is raised in such an environment."

  "Just so," I said, thinking of Papa. "What is your opinion of this?" I pointed at a triangular piece of clay, one side of which was covered in small tiles that made a picture of a head with two faces. "I thought it might be intended as the two-faced Roman god, Janus, but there is something odd about the style of the headdress."

  Reardon allowed herself to be drawn into a discussion, and her comments made the exhibits far more intriguing. Our progress slowed to a more leisurely pace, and other visitors began passing us by.

  "Perhaps we should move faster," Kate said as a recent arrival walked past with a disapproving look. "Not that it isn't all very interesting."

  "I suppose we might as well," I said. "Papa will be quite happy to hear about what we've seen so far, and I can't imagine that old coins and fragments of mosaics would have any attraction for Mr. Strangle— Oh, my!"

  The next-to-last room, which we had just entered, was quite different from the others. A waist-high shelf had been built along one wall, and lined up along it were dozens of little statues and one or two pieces of bas-relief showing robed figures. The rest of the room was empty but for a table draped in green that had been pushed up against a window in the far wall. The air had just the barest hint of old magic in it, like the faint scent of roses that lingers in a room for a while after the flowers themselves have been taken away.