The sound grew louder as she turned the corner. There, amid the piles of books and the figurines his mother-in-law collected, he sat at the piano on a stool that was far too small for his long legs. She smiled tentatively and he smiled back, as if there had been nothing odd about his absence.
“Where have you been?” she asked, leaning on the piano lid. He continued to play.
“In my head, thinking of you,” he replied, and her stomach leapt with joy. He lowered his eyes, his fingers finding the chords with ease, and grew suddenly serious as his whole body moved with the music, now more dramatic.
“You’re playing a sad tune,” she said.
“But I feel happy. You’re right, music is a release. It penetrates the soul and relieves it of pain. It fills me up inside and makes me believe that anything is possible.” He closed his eyes and continued to play for a few minutes.
Suddenly he stopped, midphrase. “Come,” he said, rising from the piano and taking her hand. He led her down the corridor to the little stairs that took them up to his studio. The paint smelled fresh. She realized that this is where he had spent the day. She longed to see what he had done, but the easel was facing away from her.
He closed the door behind her, swung her around, and kissed her hungrily. She wound her arms around his neck, melting against his body, no longer feeling out of place. In the studio, with the window wide open to the soft evening sunlight and calm sea, there was no darkness for him to hide in, no night to blame for his rashness, no moon to fabricate a magical limbo in which reality is suspended. He kissed her honestly and openly and without regret.
Celestria no longer compared him with other men she had kissed; there was no comparison. He was a different beast, as removed from the London food chain as it was possible for him to be. And there, in the succulent, pine-scented air of Italy, she, too, felt removed from all that she had left behind.
“You’re an angel, Celestria, come to drag me out of myself. I misjudged you. I see that now.” He nuzzled his face in her hair. “I need you.”
“And I need you, too,” she conceded.
“Let’s not dwell on the past. It’s time to let it go.”
“If that is what you want.”
“It is what I want. I want you and I to start afresh. I want you to forget that I ever shouted at you. And I want to forget, too.”
Celestria longed to ask him about Natalia. She wanted to know how she died, why he felt such guilt. But she knew not to push him. If he wanted to tell her, he would, in his own time. For now, she was content just to be with him, even though she sensed that those two candles burned brighter than ever in the mausoleum across the road, unwilling to be ignored.
That night, after dinner, they sneaked out to light a fire on the beach in the little bay that had captured her heart that first day. It was sheltered against the cliffs like a haven from the rest of the world, big enough only for two people and the dance they made together. The light of the moon bounced off the ripples on the sea, and the fire crackled and burned, sending sparks into the damp and salty air.
“I’m sure living by the sea does my leg no good at all,” he said, holding her close as they moved slowly across the stones. “I should have remained in the highlands.”
“Why do you stay here?”
He shrugged. “Because my past is here.”
“But your past is sad. Why don’t you move away? Start again. Leave it all behind.”
He looked down at her, his eyes tender and full of affection. “Because I love it. I love the sounds, the smells, the peace. It has a deep magic embedded in the soil that holds me to it.” He turned his gaze out to sea and frowned. “I could never leave it.”
“You said I was your angel to take you out of yourself. Perhaps I’m your angel to take you away from all this.”
He grinned at her and stroked her cheek with his fingers. “Perhaps, but I’d always come back.”
“You don’t miss Scotland?”
“Not at all.”
“You don’t feel the desire to go back, ever?”
“There is nothing in the world that would make me go back there. All the happiness I have ever known is here. I lost it for a while, but you’ve brought happiness back into my life. You brought it here, and here it will stay.” His smile faded, and he grew suddenly serious, his eyes wandering over her features. “You know, I could love you,” he said in a very quiet voice. “I could love you very much.” Before she could dwell on the significance of his words, he kissed her again, and she forgot all about them, lost in the milky light of the Marelatte moon.
The following morning Celestria met Rosanna in the little church that stood next to the Convento, with Federica, Armel, Mrs. Waynebridge, and Nuzzo. The daily Mass had been celebrated. The priest had retired. Only the candles remained lit on the altar, representing whispered prayers and solemn wishes, flickering among the spirits who hovered about to gather them. Celestria followed them down the aisle of simple wooden chairs, her espadrilles padding softly across the mosaic floor that depicted, surprisingly, the signs of the zodiac. She crossed herself before the altar and lit a candle. She thought of her father and mumbled a prayer: that his spirit rest in peace, wherever it was. Glancing to her right, she noticed Armel do the same, but her eyes filled with tears that squeezed out between her lashes when she closed them.
They sat in a small chapel that was separated from the rest of the church by a black railing and gate. The altar was covered in a white cloth, on top of which were placed two fat ivory candles and a large silver platter beneath a marble statue of Christ on the cross. She wondered what Father Dalgliesh would make of their plotting in God’s house and felt a stab of guilt as she recalled the moment she had compromised him as well as herself. However, she hadn’t time to dwell on Pendrift, for Rosanna appeared at the gate, dressed in black, with a black lace shawl draped over her head, hiding her face. She appeared nervous, hunching her shoulders, darting her head from side to side like a bird to check that she was not being watched. Nuzzo sprang to his feet and took her hand, introducing her to Armel and Celestria. Rosanna’s hand was small but soft, with neatly manicured nails. She did not lift her veil, but sat down beside her brother, interlocking her fingers in her lap.
Federica did most of the talking. Armel’s Italian seemed flawless, and she interrupted Federica every now and then in a loud hiss, gesticulating wildly, unable to hide her fury or her grief. Celestria noticed Mrs. Waynebridge’s attention was permanently focused on Nuzzo. His face was mischievous, in spite of the solemnity of the occasion and place, as if it cost him to be serious.
Mrs. Waynebridge had changed, Celestria observed. Nuzzo had given her back her youth, her independence, and her spirit of adventure. Celestria had rarely seen her since they arrived. She spent the days out exploring the countryside with Nuzzo in his horse-drawn cart, returning with an enlarged vocabulary of Italian words and more flowers to press in her book. She looked so much lighter now she was no longer weighed down by apprehension, and the twinkle from Nuzzo’s eyes was now reflected in hers.
Federica began explaining Benedict’s and Monty’s deaths and how they connected to Salazar. Rosanna listened, saying nothing, her large eyes blinking behind her veil. Then Nuzzo said his bit, his voice persuasive and beseeching. He raised his palms to the sky, shrugged, pulled faces that were intended to look sad, but still his mouth turned up at the corners. Finally, there was silence. They all looked at one another. Celestria was afraid that she wouldn’t help. She seemed far too timid.
Slowly she raised her hands to her veil and lifted it. Beneath the disguise her face was the color of caffé latte, with thick eyebrows and long, glossy lashes around big brown eyes. Her lips were sensual and bow shaped, enhanced by the red lipstick she had carefully applied to match her fingernails. Her face was full and soft, and it was clear from her compassionate expression that she was moved by their story and fearful of her lover. Celestria could deduce from the urgency of her voice that she was giving them vital infor
mation. Rosanna then replaced the veil and stood before the altar, crossing herself. In a blink she was gone, like a bird flying off into the shadows.
The small group left ten minutes later and congregated in the Convento, where Federica debriefed Celestria and Mrs. Waynebridge. “She took a little persuading. She is afraid; Salazar is a dangerous man. However, she has agreed to help us. She meets him in a little house in Castellino. You and Armel must be there at five o’clock this evening. I will send Hamish with you. He is a big man. Salazar would not want to get into a fight with him.”
“Will Salazar know that Rosanna has betrayed him?” Celestria asked, worried about the woman’s safety.
“No. She will pretend that she is as surprised to see you as he is. You must not give her away. That is most important.” Then she added carefully, “Salazar is a pompous man, but he is not necessarily a murderer. I cannot imagine what happened to your father and Armel’s husband, and you are right that there are parallels too striking to be ignored, but remember, Salazar might be innocent in all of this.”
“Maybe,” said Celestria. “But I choose to believe he’s as guilty as the devil.”
Nuzzo returned to his work and Federica to the daily tasks that kept her busy in the Convento. Armel sat with Celestria and Mrs. Waynebridge in the sunshine, debating Salazar’s innocence.
“I want Salazar to know that I think about my husband every moment of the day. It is like a dagger to my heart that is twisted and twisted over and over,” said Armel bitterly. “He has stripped me of my life. My reason to go on. You know I told you that my husband was an entrepreneur?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he was that, of course. He also worked for the government. He was a very important man. However, he was a shady man. Complex. A man with many layers, like an onion. At his core, I’m afraid, he was a criminal.” She raised her eyes wearily. “It was only when I looked into his affairs after his death that I discovered he was an arms dealer, too. He bought and sold arms to Israel. To both sides. I am ashamed, but it doesn’t stop me loving him.”
“How did you make the connection to Salazar?”
She chewed her cheek for a moment, then sighed heavily and lit a cigarette, drawing the nicotine into her lungs, visibly relaxing. “I found various accounts in his name, paid for by Salazar. Then there was this revolting Hungarian woman. At first, I thought it was an affair. My husband had an eye for the ladies, and I’m sure I was not the only woman in his life. I am French. We Frenchwomen understand that a man has his needs. But when I saw her—”
“Countess Valonya?”
“You know Countess Valonya?” Armel looked surprised.
“I had the misfortune of meeting her, yes. She worked for my father.”
“She worked for my husband, too.”
The two women stared at each other, barely able to voice the fear that now seeped into their hearts like acid.
Mrs. Waynebridge suddenly snapped out of her trance. “Sounds to me like your husband and Mr. Montague are one and the same person.” She laughed at the absurdity of her thought, but Celestria and Armel didn’t laugh.
“Do you have a photograph of your father?” Armel asked quietly, her face as pale as a funeral lily.
“You don’t think…It’s not possible!” Celestria could barely utter the words; they stuck in her throat, which now felt as if it were full of cotton wool.
Light-headed with terror, she ran upstairs to her room. “Oh, please, Lord!” she murmured as she gazed upon the face of the man she was losing, little by little. Soon she wouldn’t know him at all. When she returned, Armel had lit another cigarette and was smoking feverishly. Without a word, Celestria handed her the photograph. Armel let out a long rasping sound, like a death rattle, and bent double, laying her head on her hand.
“Mon dieu!” she gasped.
Celestria sat down, feeling suddenly very small and frail. “Is that Benedict?” she asked in a whisper, although she already knew the answer. “We should have guessed.”
The birds twittered in the trees, the dogs barked in the road outside the Convento, and the sudden neighing of a horse agitated the still, midday heat. Marelatte continued as it always had, and yet, for Armel and Celestria, the world had shifted.
Federica emerged from the kitchen. “What has happened?” she asked, for Armel was still hiding her face in her hand, the ash on the end of her cigarette drooping like a long gray caterpillar, about to burn her fingers. Celestria could barely speak. She had lost her voice. She tried, but nothing came out, just a weak hiss.
“I suggested that Armel’s husband and Celestria’s father were one and the same man. I didn’t think I were right for a moment. By gum, I didn’t.” Mrs. Waynebridge clutched at her chest and shook her head. “This is such a shock.” Her eyes sparkled with tears, and the youthful glow Nuzzo had settled on her cheeks turned to dust.
Federica sank into a chair, her own face devoid of color. She stared at the ground without blinking. “Well, that explains a lot, doesn’t it?” she said bitterly, as if she were talking to herself.
“I suppose it does,” Mrs. Waynebridge agreed, gazing anxiously at her.
“I’m so sorry,” Federica said, reaching out to touch Celestria’s arm. The girl remained still.
“Did you bury him?” she croaked.
Armel lifted her head, and the ash broke off onto the paving stone below. “No. Did you?”
“No.”
“So, there was no body?”
“No. He drowned at sea.”
Armel nodded. “Benedict drowned at sea. He must have planned it very carefully.” She blinked at Celestria, as she was suddenly struck with an extraordinary idea. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Her eyes suddenly hardened and grew as cold as slate.
Celestria nodded, her jaw loose as she floundered to make sense of it all. “Could it be true?”
“You’ve lost me,” said Mrs. Waynebridge, turning helplessly to Federica. “Have they lost you, too?”
“I daren’t say,” replied Federica, pulling on her pendant in agitation.
“I’m thinking the impossible.” Armel shrugged. “That Benedict Devere, Robert Montague, is not dead at all. That he planned his own death, transferring money to Salazar, which Countess Valonya withdrew on his behalf so that he could start a new life somewhere else. If he is capable of leading a double life, why not a triple life?”
“If that is true, he underestimated us,” said Celestria, her voice steady.
“He certainly did,” agreed Armel. “If he is alive, we will find him.”
Federica got up and walked hurriedly into the kitchen. She stood a moment with her back against the door, clutching her chest, her breathing staggered and shallow. A few moments later, she had composed herself. She reached for a bottle of wine, crossed herself, and silently asked for forgiveness.
Celestria ran down the little path to the fortress. Her throat was tight, her breathing labored, her head bursting with the need to cry. Finally, in the seclusion of the old stone ruin, she stood at the window, rested her eyes on the soothing rise and fall of the sea below, and let out a loud sob, like the cry of a wild animal. Once she had started, she couldn’t stop. It was as if all the hurt that had built up over the weeks following her father’s disappearance had now found a crack in her resistance and burst forth. She felt utterly broken by his deceit. As if he had taken an eraser and rubbed out her past and the very ground she stood on. The most terrible discovery of all was that he hadn’t included her. He had shut her out. The father she loved had never truly existed. The tears burned her cheeks and dropped off her chin onto her pretty white dress. She clutched the windowsill for balance. That is where Hamish found her.
Without a word he enfolded her in his arms and let her cry against him. With tenderness he stroked her hair and wiped away her tears, kissing her in a vain attempt to put her back together again. After a while her breathing grew regular, and she stopped crying.
“Federica tol
d me,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“He lied to me all my life. He married Armel just after the war, when Mama and I came back from America. All the while he was off on business he was building another family.” She pulled away and gazed up at him. “I trusted him blindly. I loved him unconditionally. But he didn’t love us at all. If he loved us, how could he bear to leave? What is Mama going to think? Harry, too? My God, what will my family do when I tell them? It will destroy us all.”
“Think very hard before you tell them,” Hamish suggested gravely.
“But he’s alive,” she said, frowning. “He’s alive. He’s not dead at all. I’ve been mourning him for nothing.” She grew angry. “I’ve shed tears over him. I’ve damned the sea for snatching him. I worried about the pain he might have suffered. I prayed for him to be rescued from hell. Yet he planned his death with care. He planned to make us all suffer. He cheated us out of our money so that he could enjoy a future somewhere else. What about our future?”
“Your future is here with me,” he said suddenly, holding her very tightly. “Your future is in Marelatte. This is where you belong.”
“I don’t know who to trust anymore,” she replied in a small voice.
“You can trust me.”
She looked into his deep, unfathomable eyes and noticed how different he was from her father, Aidan, Rafferty, and Dan. There were no smooth edges to Hamish: no gloss, no wide, enchanting smile, no pretense. Hamish’s honesty was raw and natural. Of that she was grateful.
29
Hamish drove Gaitano’s Lancia Flaminia down the dusty road to Castellino, a small, Moorish-looking town south of Marelatte. Armel sat in the front beside him, Celestria in the back. The vibrations in the car were strained, almost giving off a sound, like the high-pitched squeaking of violins. They arrived in town, their faces grim with determination. The buildings were constructed in the same pale stone as those in Marelatte, with flat roofs and tall, brown doors behind which secret courtyards were concealed from passers-by. However, in Castellino, the Moorish influence was plain to see: arched façades, twisted candy pillars, and intricate trellis balconies that would not have looked out of place in Morocco. Eucalyptus trees rustled in the sea breeze. A few old men sat on benches watching the setting sun, not knowing how many more sunsets they would live to see, and a group of stray dogs trotted casually by in search of dustbins, in hope of scraps.
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