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.
“Household gods,” Reardon said. She frowned and added disapprovingly, “Some of them are Egyptian.”
“Didn’t the Romans conquer Egypt?” Kate said. “Perhaps those are some of the spoils they brought back with them.”
I walked to the table at the far end. The feel of magic was stronger, though still very faint. The table contained several small lamps made of reddish pottery, two statuettes of a woman holding a torch, a gold ornament shaped like the branch of a tree, and a sword made of corroded bronze. The sword’s blade was flat and almost rounded at the end, though I could not tell whether that was its original design or whether the point had corroded away. There was a small card in the corner of the table bearing a phrase in Italian.
“Reardon, do you know what these are?” I asked. “They don’t look like anything I’ve heard of.”
The others came over to join me. “I think the statues are of a goddess,” Reardon said. “Possibly offerings of some sort. This”—she gestured at the gold ornament—“seems to be a cloak pin.”
“But which goddess?” I asked. “Vesta was the Roman goddess associated with fire, but I don’t think the Romans ever made statues of her, and I can’t think of anyone else it could be.”
“I am afraid I don’t know either, Madam,” Reardon said.
Behind me, Piers cleared his throat. “The card says, ‘From the King of the Wood at Nemus Dianae.’ ”
“Piers!” Kate said. “Why didn’t you tell us you spoke Italian?”
“Er,” said Piers. “I, um, didn’t want to distract you, my lady.”
“You’re sure it says the King of the Wood?” I said. Piers nodded. “That can’t mean the statues, then.” I glared at the card. “You would think that a label would say something more useful.”
“It’s an odd set of objects for a king to have,” Kate commented. “That is, I suppose the sword is ordinary, but why the statues? And you’d expect a king to have a crown, certainly.”
“Yes,” I said thoughtfully. “You’d certainly expect that. I suppose they might not have found the crown with these other things, but if they did—”
“Then it’s gone missing, like those other things the Duke of Wellington mentioned,” Kate finished. We looked at each other.
“Thomas and James might be able to find out whether the Conte’s collection used to include a crown,” Kate said after a minute.
“And I expect Papa will know something about this goddess,” I said. “I’ll write him this afternoon. And one of us should send to Lady Sylvia.”
“I’ll do that, if you check my knitting,” Kate said as we started toward the door. “It’s so difficult, knowing that dropping a stitch may change the whole meaning of a message.”
“I’ll be glad to,” I said. “Piers, what are you doing?”
Piers had come to a dead halt in the middle of the hallway, forcing the rest of us to pause likewise. “A moment, if you please, Madam,” he said, his head cocked in an attitude of listening.
I was about to say something scathing, when I remembered that Piers was, after all, a professional bodyguard. So instead of distracting him, I listened for whatever had attracted his attention. At first all I heard was a murmur of Italian echoing down the hallway from the first display room, but after a moment, the voices began to rise. Unfortunately, they were still in Italian, but one was clearly a man’s voice and the other a woman’s. The argument seemed to reach a climax, then the man snapped something. I caught the names “Tarleton” and “Schofield,” and then Piers came to life.
“In here, quickly,” he said, and we all piled through the nearest doorway onto the landing of the back stairs.
“What is going on?” I whispered.
“I do not think we should be seen by the lady who was arguing with the gentleman at the end of the hall,” Piers said. “And as they will be coming this way in another moment—”
“You are nearly as closemouthed as your employer,” I said. “Move over.”
Piers looked confused.
“Move over,” I repeated. “I want a good look at this lady who is so cross about Tarleton and Schofield, and I think that if we open the door a crack, we can get one.”
“I don’t think your husband would approve of that, Madam,” Piers said.
“He probably won’t,” I said. “What has that to do with anything? Move.”
Reluctantly, he stepped aside, and I opened the door two finger-widths. The others crowded around the crack as well. A moment later the curator went past, still expostulating in Italian, into the room full of statues we had just quitted. Following him was a young woman in a neat cream morning dress, quite simple, in the Italian style. Her hair was a rich, dark brown, and her figure resembled that of some of the ancient statues Papa is so fond of—the sort of statues that Aunt Elizabeth considers most improper. Piers stiffened and Walker gasped.
I shut the door as hastily as I could without making a noise, though I did not think the woman had heard. “What is it?” I asked Walker softly.
“But that woman is the one I spoke of, the one who visited the Strangle in Paris!” Walker said. “I knew she was not respectable. How is it that she is here?”
“That is an exceedingly good question,” I said. “Piers, you must follow her when she leaves, and find out where she is going.”
“I fear I cannot oblige you, Madam,” Piers said uncomfortably. “Er, my employer engaged me to act as bodyguard, and one cannot guard someone if one is elsewhere.”
“If I promise to go straight back to our rooms with Cecy?” Kate said. “I don’t see how anything could happen to us with both our maids along, in broad daylight, in such a short distance.”
“I am sorry, my lady,” Piers said, even more uncomfortably than before. “I cannot see my way to it.”
I could tell that he was going to be stubborn, and I did not know how much time we had. “Walker! Can you follow her without being seen? And then come back and tell us whatever you find out, of course. I’d go myself, but Mr. Strangle has probably given her descriptions of all of us, if they’re working together, and she might realize it was me.”
Walker blinked at me in startlement. Then her eyes began to sparkle. “Oui, Madame!” she said. “She will never know I am there.”
Piers looked appalled. “Madam—”
“Go, then,” I said to Walker, and slipped her out the door. I frowned at Piers. “It would have been much better if you had gone, because you speak Italian and you could have told us what she said,” I told him.
“I could not, Madam,” Piers said miserably. “She would have recognized m
e at once.”
“Recognized you?” I said. “Have you been flirting with Italian housemaids, now? I thought you learned your lesson in Calais. Though she doesn’t look much like a housemaid, now I think on it.”
“She didn’t in Calais, either,” Piers said. “That was Eve-Marie.”
“What?” Kate and I said together. We looked at each other, and then Kate continued, “That was the Young Person who tied you up and locked you in the scullery the night someone tried to enter Lady Sylvia’s rooms?”
Piers nodded.
Kate and I looked at each other again. “What a good thing we sent Walker,” I said after a moment.
“You sent Walker,” Kate pointed out. “I wish you’d told her to be careful.”
“There wasn’t time,” I said. “Besides, she’ll have to be careful if she’s not to be seen. Have they gone?”
“Reardon, you’re the only one of us she might not recognize,” Kate said. “Would you look?”
Reardon opened the door and stepped calmly into the corridor. After what seemed an extremely long time, she returned. “I believe they have departed, my lady,” she said. “And the curator has removed that last exhibit you were looking at. The one ‘From the King of the Wood.’”
“That’s curious,” I said as we moved down the hallway toward the door.
“Was that what they were arguing about, Piers?” Kate asked. “Was she trying to make sure we wouldn’t see it?”
“I believe that was the main part of their disagreement, my lady,” Piers said.
“We had better get back,” I said. “James and Thomas will want to know about this, and we ought to write down as much as we can about that exhibit before we forget any of it. If they didn’t want us to see it, something about it must be important.”
“But what?” Kate said.
The Grand Tour Page 17