The Grand Tour

by Patricia C. Wrede

None of us had a good answer, though we discussed the matter all the way back to the inn.

  From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield

  10 October 1817

  Milan

  At our lodgings in the Via Santa Sofia

  Thomas has thought of many questions he ought to have posed to Mr. Strangle when he had the chance. His annoyance with himself over the missed opportunity made his pursuit of Mr. Strangle more dogged than I would have thought possible. While he and James hunted for the Strangle, as Cecy’s maid calls him, Cecy and I were left to our own devices.

  Walker came up trumps in the matter of surveillance. She returned flushed with triumph and joined us in the parlor, where Cecy was studying a map of the city, and I was writing letters.

  “I have followed that woman. She went straight to a private house. Waiting to see if she would emerge again has made me late, and I regret it most sincerely. However, she did not emerge. I have every confidence that the house to which I followed her is the place where she is staying.”

  “What house?” Cecy asked. “Where did she go?”

  “That woman went directly to a fine house in the fashionable quarter off the Piazza Saint Basila. She was received as a visitor, no more, but she must be there as a guest of the house. No social call could have lasted so long.” Walker’s expression made her opinion of Eve-Marie perfectly plain. No better than she should be, that was evident.

  “Show me on the map,” Cecy said.

  This proved difficult, as the mapmaker had been more intent upon portraying every glory of the city, from the Duomo to the Castello, than in representing side streets accurately.

  “Here,” said Walker at last, indicating a crowded spot on the city plan between the Duomo and the eastern gate. “Do you see, Madame?”

  I held out my pen and a fresh sheet of writing paper. “Perhaps you could sketch a more detailed map for us?”

  “But of course.” Walker dipped the pen and, without a single spatter of ink, drew a diagram of a piazza and the streets angling off it. She put an X halfway along one street, on the north side. “It is unmistakable,” said Walker, “for the facade of the house is of the same shade of yellow as the opera house.” To me, she added, “That is a shade that would suit you to perfection, Madame la Marquise. I have thought so since I first saw it.”

  I must confess that her suggestion made my heart sink a little. I know I would miss it if Cecy ever left off suggesting colors that would suit me to perfection. She’s always right. It is a great talent of hers. Yet when Walker does it, it piques me. Does the whole world know better than I do what suits me?

  Thank goodness that Reardon is not prone to this helpfulness. I do not think I could bear it if she did it, too.

  What makes me feel particularly foolish about my pique is that I had privately thought much the same thing about the dull golden yellow of La Scala’s facade. It would look well on me. But since we have no need to order more gowns and, even if we did, no time in which to do so, I don’t see what I can do about it.

  11 October 1817

  Milan

  At our lodgings in the Via Santa Sofia

  It is not possible to visit Milan without also visiting the L’Ultima Cena, which is what the Milanese call Leonardo’s The Last Supper. To see the fresco, one visits the Convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie, a pleasant enough place. Pleasant enough, indeed, to make up for the grim dinginess of the room, once the convent’s dining room, in which the fresco is located.

  I found the famous masterpiece disappointing, for the painting is obscured by the filth of ages, its colors mere shadows in comparison to those of the gaudy Crucifixion on the opposite wall. Fortunately, I was not alone on the excursion. Cecy and I were accompanied by Walker, Reardon, and the ever-present Piers. Although I was a trifle put off by the faint smell of mold that haunted the place, Cecy was fascinated.

  “Only think of it. Leonardo da Vinci worked here, Kate. Perhaps he stood on this very spot. Very likely he must have, in order to step back for a better look at his work.”

  I did my best to counterfeit enthusiasm, but the best I could do was, “I am thinking of it, and if the great painter actually stood on this very spot, I hope the mildew was not quite so advanced in his day.”

  “Oh, do cheer up, Kate.” Cecy gave me one of her Looks. “Leonardo wasn’t just a painter. He was a master of spell casting, a wizard of wizards.”

  “Then it’s a pity he wasn’t able to keep the paint from peeling off this wall.”

  “He experimented. This was one of his experiments, that’s all. Not everything works perfectly straightaway.” Cecy’s enthusiasm for Leonardo and all his works was interrupted as another visitor joined us in the refectory. Cecy’s eyes grew enormous. “Why, Mr. Daventer!”

  The newcomer, a well-dressed, rather solemn youth, made a creditable bow. “Mrs. Tarleton, I’m pleased to meet you again.”

  “Lady Schofield, may I present Mr. Theodore Daventer?” Cecy completed the introductions. I was, as usual, mildly astonished by the use of my title, but I think I was able to greet Theodore Daventer without betraying the fact. To my disappointment, and I think to Cecy’s as well, Theodore was not accompanied by Mr. Strangle, nor, indeed, by anyone else.

  “Are you a fellow admirer of Leonardo da Vinci?” I asked Theodore. “Cecy was just explaining the nature of his genius.”

  Theodore gazed around the room entranced, as if it were lined with gold. “I longed to visit Amboise, where the great man lived out his last days in the service of the French king, but, alas, our travel arrangements did not permit it. This is the first chance I have had to visit any of Leonardo’s masterworks, and I simply could not let it go by.”

  Cecy’s face lit up. “I should think not.” The pair of them indulged in a bit of admiring reminiscence concerning Leonardo’s virtues, before she inquired, “Is your tutor also an admirer of Leonardo’s genius?” She looked around as if Theodore’s escort might materialize from thin air.

  Theodore looked uneasy. “I don’t have a tutor at the moment. My uncle has dismissed Mr. Strangle from his service. I don’t know when he will engage another.”

  “Oh, dear.” Cecy was sympathy itself. “How distressing that must have been. Did your uncle give a particular reason?”

  “I complained to him of Mr. Strangle’s lack of erudition,” Theodore confessed, “yet that did not seem to concern my uncle nearly as much as Mr. Strangle’s lack of discretion. Mr. Strangle had been discussing my uncle’s private affairs with outsiders, so of course he had to be dismissed.”

  “I hope you do not blame yourself for that dismissal?” Cecy seemed to read the answer in Theodore’s troubled expression. “Mr. Strangle has made his bed many times over, and now he must lie in it. You are not to be held responsible for his faults.”

  “His many faults,” I echoed.

  “Indeed, I know it.” Theodore seemed to struggle inwardly a moment, then added, “I fear I am far happier today, free to view this masterpiece unhindered by Mr. Strangle’s observations, than I have been since I arrived on the Continent.”

  With her customary social ingenuity, Cecy took the matter in hand. “You are well rid of Mr. Strangle, if I may be excused for saying so. Have you made plans for other excursions while you are here in Milan? I can recommend the museum of antiquities without reserve.”

  “What a delight it is to encounter ladies of such erudition,” Theodore exclaimed. “I have visited the collection with my uncle and I found it fascinating, but I would hardly have expected you to share my interest.”

  “Cecy’s father is a notable historian,” I said, “so perhaps it runs in the family.”

  “May I ask his name?” Theodore was courtesy itself.

  “Arthur Rushton of Rushton Manor,” Cecy replied.

  Theodore’s eyes widened. “Not the Arthur Rushton whose distinguished paper upon the geographic origin of the first Etruscan tribes appeared in last year’s proceedings of the Royal Society of Antiquarie
s?”

  Cecy seemed taken aback, so I said, “Yes, that sounds very like Uncle Arthur. We had Etruscans for every meal while he was expounding his original theory.”

  This was pure slander, and not merely because I did not live under Uncle Arthur’s roof and so did not take my meals there. Uncle Arthur loves his subject, but he debates his theories only with those of equal erudition, largely through correspondence, and he is the last man in the world to bore his family with table talk.

  Theodore seemed to find this remark highly amusing. “Very good, Lady Schofield. Nothing would suit the Etruscans better than such convivial surroundings.”

  I simply regarded him in mute confusion, but fortunately Cecy was able to take up the conversation again. “Your uncle appreciated the splendid collection as much as you did, I hope?”

  Theodore’s regret was clear. “Only to the degree that any gentleman of breeding must admire the beauties of the classical world. My uncle is no scholar, though he appreciates the achievements of others.” Despite the firmness of Theodore’s words, something in his tone suggested to me that we were hearing Theodore’s hopes for his uncle more clearly than his experience of the man. “He does not pretend to an erudition he does not possess.”

  “Unlike Mr. Strangle,” I murmured.

  Cecy forged onward. “You may be able to enlighten him as your travels continue. If you are here in Milan for some time, you will surely have a chance to discuss the splendors of the city with him at length.”

  “My uncle is less concerned with the splendors of the past than with the splendors of the present,” said Theodore, with a trace of sadness. “The palaces of Vienna mean far more to him than the splendors of Rome. He has quite a different itinerary in mind from the one I would have liked.”

  “Vienna?” Cecy looked puzzled. “There aren’t any antiquities there, are there?”

  “Only the Dowager Empress, Mr. Strangle said,” Theodore replied.

  “That is precisely the sort of remark I should expect Mr. Strangle to make,” said Cecy. “I cannot regret his dismissal. I am sure your uncle’s influence will be far more salutary.”

  “My uncle shares your views,” said Theodore. He gazed upon Cecy with such intensity that I was forcibly reminded of a sheepdog. Or possibly just a sheep.

  “What a pity he did not accompany you,” said Cecy. “I would be delighted to make his acquaintance.”

  “And he, yours, I am sure.” Theodore made sheep’s eyes at Cecy. No question, the young man was smitten. And Cecy would never notice, not in a hundred years. I felt a pang of sympathy for the youth. “If you would accompany me back to the house he has engaged, nothing could give me more pleasure than to introduce you.”

  “What a splendid notion,” said Cecy, with as much candid delight as if she had not been angling for the invitation almost since the moment she laid eyes on Theodore. “But you won’t wish to be hurried away from this masterpiece so soon, I am sure. Indeed, we are disposed to linger ourselves. Kate can never be satisfied with a brief visit to the work of the old masters, can you, Kate?”

  “No, indeed. I dote upon them all,” I assured Theodore with as much conviction as if I were indeed one of the bas-bleu he clearly took us to be. “Indeed, no matter how I wish to express my admiration, words fail me.” I did my best to resemble a young lady with an unhealthy appreciation of such things.

  Cecy drew Theodore away to point out a particularly exquisite patch of mold. Their perusal of the fresco was leisurely, but at the end of it, Theodore allowed us to accompany him home without a moment’s suspicion.

  To be honest, I had some preconceived notions about William Mountjoy. The description of his Venetian dressing gown went with what I had seen of his fashionable slipper. I was sure he would be a coxcomb, a vain young man of fashion. To my surprise, Mountjoy turned out to be a man of middle years, with a receding hairline and a paunch. He seemed as mild as milk. Once Theodore had introduced us, he offered us refreshments in the drawing room of the house he had hired for the duration of his stay.

  Mountjoy said, “It is my loss that I did not meet you and your cousin weeks ago. I believe we were all guests at Dessein’s the night they were visited by a robber.”

  “Indeed. A shocking occasion,” I said.

  “A shocking occasion, indeed. Dessein’s can’t expect to keep their reputation if they let that sort of thing go on. Not only thieves, but the ceiling fell in, yes, actually fell down upon a dinner party.”

  “Indeed?” I gave Mountjoy my stupidest look. If he persisted in discussing the plaster that fell during our dinner party, I set myself to feign complete ignorance of the event. “They never found the culprit, I believe.”

  As Cecy and Theodore continued their discussion of the genius of Leonardo da Vinci, I thought boredom with my stupidity began to seep into Mountjoy’s courteous demeanor.

  “You are very kind to entertain your young nephew’s friends,” I said.

  “I am delighted to do so,” Mountjoy assured me. “We are just getting to know each other. Sometimes that is easier to do when there are others to smooth the way. I confess that I had no idea young Theodore’s admiration for Leonardo da Vinci was so … consuming.”

  “His tutor seemed unaware of it as well. Theodore told us that Mr. Strangle would not permit him to visit Amboise, where Leonardo da Vinci spent his last days.”

  Mountjoy looked as stern as his round face allowed. “If I had known of Theodore’s partiality for such things, I would have ordered Strangle to take him to Amboise.”

  “Indeed. It is a shame he missed such a treat. Theodore told us Mr. Strangle has been dismissed.”

  “Dismissed!” Mountjoy’s indignation was clear. “He should have been horsewhipped. He may count himself lucky he was merely turned off without a character.”

  “I am sure you showed great restraint.” I tried to make my tone an invitation to show no restraint in telling me the whole. Alas, I did not succeed.

  “I did. I won’t sully your ears with the details, Lady Schofield, but if you ever hear differently, you will know it for another falsehood told by that lying hound.”

  “We aren’t likely to hear differently, are we?” I asked. “Mr. Strangle won’t find honest employment here. I suppose he will return to England.”

  “I suppose he will go to the devil,” said Mountjoy violently. “Not that I care where he goes or what he does.”

  “No, indeed,” I said meekly. “So long as Theodore is safe from him.”

  “Oh, yes. Theodore.” Mountjoy cleared his throat. “I must see about engaging a proper tutor for the boy. He can’t run wild forever.”

  “He doesn’t seem likely to run wild at all,” I said. “He seems a very studious and responsible young man.”

  “No thanks to Strangle,” said Mountjoy darkly.

  Cecy could probably have done better, but Theodore monopolized her until it was time for us to go. Despite my best efforts, I was unable to coax any more information about Mr. Strangle from William Mountjoy. We took our leave of them and returned to our lodgings only moments after the arrival of Thomas and James. Both were in a state of great excitement.

  “We found him,” said James.

  “Found who?” Cecy demanded.

  “Strangle,” Thomas answered. “He’s dead. The authorities fished him out of the ornamental pool in the di Monti gardens.”

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

  Thomas’s abrupt announcement startled us all. “Dead?” I said after a moment. “But who could have—”

  “I’m sure we’d all like to discuss that,” James said. “But not in the hall, I think.”

  We proceeded up to the sitting room. “When did they find him?” I asked as soon as everyone was settled.

  “This morning,” Thomas said. “And before you inquire, yes, it was foul play. Not, however, of a sorcerous nature. It was a straightforward knife in the back.”

  “Oh, dear,” Kate said. “Then when we were
talking to Lord Mountjoy, he was already—Oh, dear.”

  “I can’t see that it would have made much difference if we’d known,” I said. “One could hardly offer insincere condolences to an ex-employer, especially one so put out as Lord Mountjoy was.”

  “You spoke with Mountjoy?” Thomas said.

  “Kate did, mostly; I was occupied with Theodore,” I said, and explained the circumstances.

  “I don’t like it,” James said. “The way this young man keeps popping up is beginning to seem a little too convenient.”

  “But convenient for whom?” I said, frowning. “And why? Nothing quite fits together.”

  Thomas started to say something, but Kate looked at him and he only cocked an eyebrow inquiringly. “What do you mean, nothing fits?” Kate asked.

  “Well, first there’s the chrism. The Lady in Blue had it all ready to hand on to Lady Sylvia the very day we arrived in Calais—but all our travel plans were so scrambled, how did she know Lady Sylvia was going to be in Calais that day? And how did Mountjoy know where to try to intercept it?”

  “Did he try to intercept it?” James asked mildly.

  “Someone certainly did so,” I pointed out. “And Mountjoy was there. That story of a thief running off with one of his slippers always seemed unlikely to me. Furthermore, he lied about his reasons for being in Calais. He clearly hasn’t left the Continent, after all.” I sat up very straight. “Remember, Mr. Strangle said he came to Calais and took up his post as Theodore’s tutor ‘after a final interview with Theodore’s uncle’? Mountjoy was in Calais to see Strangle, and he didn’t want us to know about it.”

  “That fits with what Strangle told us,” Thomas said. “But it doesn’t have anything to do with the chrism. In fact, it is entirely unexceptionable. Much too entirely unexceptionable.”

  Behind me, Walker made a diffident noise. I turned and nodded encouragingly.

  “The Lord Mountjoy we spoke to today, Madame,” she said. “He is the small gentleman who visited Monsieur Strangle in Paris.”

  “No surprise there,” Thomas said.

  Kate and James gave Thomas identical reproving looks. I cleared my throat. “Then there is Sir Hilary’s attack—those highwaymen who shot James.”