The Florentine Cypher: Kate Benedict Paranormal Mystery #3 (The Kate Benedict Series)

by Carrie Bedford

  Enjoying the early spring sunshine, I took a circuitous route towards the Piazza Signoria, mulling the events of Friday night, focusing on the details, trying to think of anything that would cast light on what had happened to Ethan. After twenty minutes of tortured and unproductive thinking, I glanced up to find that I’d walked nearly as far as the Duomo, Florence’s cathedral. On a whim, I joined the queue for the climb up to the dome. It’d been years since I last did it. The exercise would do me good, maybe help me shake off some of the stress I was feeling. The line was long, and from what I could hear, represented a diverse group of visitors from many countries.

  Just ahead of me a dozen English tourists talked loudly to each other until their tour guide began reciting the history of the Duomo and the building of the great cupola. “And don’t be confused,” she reminded them, “by the words duomo and dome. Duomo is the word for cathedral, coming from the Latin domus, which means house, as in house of God. The construction of the cathedral started more than one hundred years before Brunelleschi designed the dome, one of the greatest architectural achievements in the world.”

  The Brits gazed upwards and I wondered if they were silent because they were in awe, or because they had no clue what the guide had been talking about. I suspected the latter when one of them began, “But not as impressive as Bill’s greatest drinking achievement last night—” The other members of the group burst out laughing.

  As bells across the city tolled midday, we moved into the cathedral, ready to begin the ascent. I looped the strap of my shoulder bag across my chest so it wouldn’t slip off. The first half of the climb took us up an enclosed spiral stairway, which reminded me of my tendency to claustrophobia, but narrow openings in the walls gave enticing hints of the view to come.

  About halfway up, we emerged on to a long, narrow balcony that ran around the inside of the cupola. From this vantage point, the frescoed ceiling was spectacular, the colorful scenes of the Judgment Day looming huge around us. Perched on fluffy white clouds in a perfect blue sky, saints and angels gazed down with smiling faces on scenes of sinners being tossed into raging fires or impaled on pitchforks by leering devils. The contrast between heaven and hell was extreme, no subtlety there. To sin was to be cast into the inferno to suffer for all of eternity.

  A guard hurried us along and we obediently advanced, beginning the second part of the climb, up more stairways and along narrow corridors, where I admired the distinctive herringbone brick pattern that added strength to the overall structure. I’d studied Brunelleschi’s astonishing dome as part of my degree. In fact, his dome was made of two concentric shells, one inside the other, and bound with iron rings to prevent the whole thing from collapsing outward. His design was both ingenious and audacious— so much could have gone wrong. But he’d succeeded in creating one of the world’s most stunning architectural monuments in an era long before modern equipment and engineering.

  Aware that we were close to the top, the visitors around me chattered with excitement. A flight of steep steps that followed the curve of the inner dome made for a dramatic final ascent before we emerged onto the exterior terrace. It was crammed with people, but I found a space at the railing and peered cautiously over the edge of the parapet. Below, the red roof of the dome curved away in a precipitous drop that made my stomach turn. People on the streets below looked like tiny insects and even the tall palazzos of Florence seemed like dollhouses from here.

  A man leaned with his back to the railing, ignoring the view. He had dirty blonde hair and a pockmarked face with a sullen expression that stood out among the noisy, cheerful tourists surrounding him. I caught his eye and turned away. I didn’t remember seeing him in the queue at the entry. For some reason he made me nervous, so I moved on, following the circular terrace to take in a different view. A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed that he was still in the same place. I was just being jumpy, I concluded.

  I came up behind the British tour group and listened to their guide telling them we had climbed 463 stairs to get here. After a few minutes, I returned to the exit and the steps that led back down to the cathedral floor.

  Back inside the walls of the dome, I followed the crowd, making slow progress. We’d been descending for a few minutes when we came to a halt, waiting for a single-file stretch of corridor to clear. Someone behind me asked what was happening and when I turned to explain, I saw the man with the pockmarked face again. The hair prickled on the back of my neck. Was he following me? No, I decided after a few seconds. I was being paranoid. I recognized other faces in the queue of people behind me, including all the Brits. We’d all gone up to the dome, walked around the terrace, and descended at roughly the same pace. He must be a tourist like everyone else, in spite of his surly expression.

  We started to move again, but I couldn’t shake the feeling he was watching me. Discarding my customary courtesy, I slipped in front of a middle-aged couple and sidled past a group of five older tourists who’d probably caused the slowdown earlier. Ahead, the spiral staircase was empty. I trotted down as quickly as I could.

  Once or twice, my foot slipped on the worn stone treads, a reminder to slow down. I’d visited some of the castles in Scotland, where I’d learned all about the tricks of their spiral staircases. They wound in the direction that allowed the castle inhabitants to carry swords in their right hands as they ran down the stairs, while intruders fighting their way up were forced to hold their weapons in their left hands. And many of the staircases had trick steps, a rise that was a different height from the others and would cause the unwary to fall.

  In spite of my nerves, I met no armed raiders on my way down and soon reached ground level inside the Duomo.

  Since there was no sign of the man with the pockmarked face, I slowed my pace and relaxed. I was considering a visit to the crypt and the ruins of the original cathedral, Santa Reparata, when someone bumped into me from behind. A hand yanked at my bag, pulling on the strap hard enough to send pain shooting through my shoulder and across my chest. I half-turned to face my assailant. It was the man with the bad skin. Clutching my bag in both hands, I tried to pull away from him, but he grabbed my arm and put his face close to mine.

  “Give me the key,” he said in English. His breath smelled of garlic and his accent was foreign, but not Italian. I couldn’t quite place it.

  I shouted for help while squirming to free my arm from his tight grip. My cry attracted the attention of two security guards on the opposite side of the large cathedral. They jogged over but, by the time they reached me, the man had given up on his attempt to seize my bag. He’d gone, leaving with a tourist group through the side door that led to the Piazza del Duomo.

  “He tried to take my bag,” I explained to the guards. They nodded, looking concerned, but when one of them started a lecture on how to safeguard myself from pickpockets I assured them I understood and thanked them for their help. As they strolled away, I checked my bag to reassure myself that I still had the leather pouch. It was there, together with my passport and money, but my knees were still shaking from the encounter as I headed to the exit. Half-blinded in the bright sunshine after the dark spaces of the cathedral, I peered around. There was no sign of my assailant among the crowds. My pulse was still racing. I’d had an encounter with a pickpocket in London once and, although he’d failed to take anything, I’d felt violated. This was different. This time, I was really angry. It was the second time in two days that I’d been accosted.

  My mobile rang, vibrating in my bag. When I answered, a woman spoke in strongly accented English.

  “Miss Benedict? My name is Valeria and I am a friend of Claire’s. You must come, please, to the hospital, at once.”

  “What happened? Is Claire all right?”

  The phone went dead, and I heard only an empty sighing sound as my unanswered question bounced around in the atmosphere.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  For a moment, I wondered if the call had been a hoax. Was someone trying to trap me? But
, of course, Claire could also be a target and, whatever was going on, it would be better to face it together. I gathered my bearings and set off in the direction of the hospital.

  Away from the crowded piazza, the side streets were quieter, with few tourists and even fewer locals, most of whom would still be eating lunch. When I glanced into the window of a closed antique shop, I saw the reflection of a man in a blue anorak on the other side of the street. I turned to get a closer look at him, but he bent over to retie a shoelace.

  Quickening my pace, I listened to the sound of my footsteps echoing against the walls of the houses. A second set of footsteps formed a pattern with my own. A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed that the man was still behind me. When I paused, he slowed down.

  A motorbike sped past, the roar of the engine deafening in the quiet neighborhood. I considered stepping out to attract the driver’s attention, but he streaked by in a cloud of diesel fumes. As if emboldened by the bike’s departure, my pursuer hurried after me and, as he closed the distance between us, I ran, careful not to turn an ankle in my heeled boots. After a hundred meters or so, the street opened into a small square lined with tall, pale, stuccoed houses. The windows were shuttered and the dark wooden doors were firmly closed, giving no sign of life, not even a cat to break the unwelcome emptiness. Taking a diagonal across the square, I walked fast towards a road that led out of it to the north.

  I turned right on to Via Sant’ Egidio and saw the Ospedale Santa Maria Nuova just ahead. There, a few locals were out and about, also heading in the direction of the hospital, so I slowed down to catch my breath. In the safety of the entrance, I stopped to glance behind me. The man had gone. Maybe I’d imagined the whole thing, and he was just out for a walk. But that seemed unlikely.

  The hospital reception area was bustling and, as I’d expect, there was a sprinkling of auras, an old nonna pushing a walker, an elderly man in a wheelchair. I looked away, focused instead on the queue at the reception desk. More than a dozen people were looking at their smartphones or chatting quietly. They seemed resigned to a long wait so I reluctantly joined the back of the line. After ten minutes, only one person had been processed by the woman on duty. A quick calculation convinced me that this could take all afternoon, so I pushed through to the front, where a female clerk made me fill out a form before telling me where to find Claire. Everyone in the line glared at me when I left the counter with my permission slip in hand.

  “Inglese,” whispered one of them, as though my nationality explained my rude behavior. I hurried away towards the emergency wing, which was filled with grey curtained cubicles and solemn staff. A nurse sat a desk, filling out paperwork. When I handed her the form, she read through it slowly, as though absorbing every piece of information.

  “Signorina Hamilton is in the cubicle at the end,” she said finally, pointing to the far end of the long room. It was surprisingly quiet. No sign of doctors dashing to bedsides, no buzz of machines. I walked to the cubicle, conscious of my boots squeaking loudly on the grey tiled floor, and pushed through the curtain to find a dark-haired woman in heels and an elegant blue suit standing next to the bed.

  “You must be Kate. I’m Valeria,” she said in fast Italian. “Pleased to meet you. Claire is fine. Only a few bruises. The doctors want her to stay for an hour or so.”

  Claire was sitting up, propped against stark white pillows. She had a bandage on her forehead and a bruise on her cheek. Her aura still moved slowly. That was a good sign, if there was any good to be found with auras.

  She opened her eyes. “Kate! I’m so glad to see you.”

  I pulled up a grey plastic chair that reminded me of the one in Detective Lake’s office, parked it close to the bed, and sat down.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Someone attacked me outside the office.” Tears flowed down her cheeks. “Fortunately, Valeria rescued me.”

  I looked at Valeria. “What happened?”

  “I’d just arrived and was in the hall on the way to my office when I heard a scream from outside,” she said. “When I ran out to see a mugger trying to take Claire’s bag, I yelled at him and warned him the police were coming. He ran away.”

  “What did he look like?”

  Valeria shrugged. “I’m not sure. Tall, black hair, leather jacket.”

  Not my pockmarked-face man then. I wondered how many of them there were. If the man in the blue anorak had indeed been following me to the hospital, there were at least three here in Florence.

  “He hit you?” The bruise on Claire’s cheek was purple and black.

  “No,” Claire said. “I fell to the ground when he first grabbed my bag. I hit the pavement hard.”

  “She’s got bruises on her hip and elbow too,” said Valeria. “But it could have been worse. The doctor prescribed some painkillers for a headache and told her to rest for a day or two.”

  “I really need to get to work.” Claire said, pushing the blanket away. “The art historians are coming first thing tomorrow.”

  Valeria shook her head, reminding me of a stern French teacher I’d once had. “I can manage the preparations for that with no problem,” she said. “In fact, I’ve already called for reinforcements. Donna and Guiseppe are heading to the office now. What you must do is rest, Claire, just as the doctor ordered.”

  I flicked an admiring grin at Valeria. She smiled. “And I have called the police to report the incident,” she said. “An officer will be here shortly.” She looked around the sparsely furnished cubicle. “No water. I’ll go find some.”

  Claire leaned back on the pillows.

  “This was no random event,” I told her. “I’d bet your mugger wanted the key.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “What?”

  “A man tried to take my bag at the cathedral. He demanded I hand over the key. Which I didn’t.”

  “Oh my God. What do we do now?”

  “We tell the police.”

  “Tell the police what?” Valeria came back into the cubicle, carrying three bottles of water. She handed us one each and perched on the edge of the bed.

  “Kate can explain it all,” Claire whispered. “It’s not good.”

  I told Valeria everything that had happened so far, about Ethan’s disappearance and the stolen book. Valeria listened quietly, sipping from her water bottle.

  “Why don’t you give the key to the next person who comes looking for it?” she asked. “It can’t be important enough to risk being robbed and injured for.”

  Claire nodded. “You’re right.” She gave me her empty water bottle to throw away. “But I’m not sure I can let it go. My dad went to the trouble of keeping the Della Pittura and the key in a safety deposit box. They must have been very important to him.” She sniffed back tears, and Valeria handed her a tissue.

  “I wonder if the book is valuable in its own right, or does it only serve as a container for the key?” I asked, suffering another pang of guilt that I’d let the book be stolen.

  “Whether it is or not, I’m sure Claire’s father would never have wanted to put her in danger,” Valeria said. “I think you should hand it over, if not to one of these men, then to the police.”

  I didn’t say anything. I had no influence over what Claire decided to do, but I suspected that the problem wouldn’t be resolved by simply giving up the key. For one thing, Ethan was still missing. Was he hiding from the people who wanted the book and the key so much? Or had they kidnapped him and were holding him until we gave up the key? There was a third explanation for his absence, but it wasn’t one I wanted to think about.

  I turned my attention back to Claire.

  “What do you think, Kate?” she asked. “We should just do as Valeria suggests, don’t you think?” Her voice sounded lighter already, as if she believed she had some level of control over the situation.

  “I don’t know. We need to consider that these men are almost certainly looking for Ethan too— or they already have him. The key may be someth
ing we can use to negotiate. You know, we could offer it in return for information on his whereabouts.”

  Claire’s shoulders slumped and she looked down at her hands. Valeria threw a look at me that was hard to read. I wasn’t sure if she was angry with me for upsetting Claire or if she was simply mad that the situation existed at all. Either way, I liked her. I guessed that she would be a good friend to have in a crisis.

  Just then a nurse entered the cubicle with a young poliziotto in tow. Claire sat up straighter on her pillows. Even in the midst of all this, her hand went to her hair to smooth it into place.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said to him.

  “I trust you are not badly hurt?” The officer’s face creased with concern.

  “No. Only shaken up a bit.” She introduced Valeria and me, and the policeman asked a couple of routine questions about where and when the mugging had taken place. He wrote a quick note and then closed his notebook.

  “We’ll do what we can,” he said. “But, as he didn’t succeed in taking your handbag, it’s unlikely that this will be pursued aggressively.” He gave us a sheepish look. “We are overworked and have to concentrate our efforts on the serious crimes. I hope you understand.”

  “I don’t think it was a mugging,” I said. The policeman looked up at me, waiting for an explanation.

  “It’s something to do with her brother,” I continued, glancing at Claire, who nodded her agreement. “He’s missing and we think his disappearance is connected in some way to this robbery attempt.”

  I told him what I’d told Valeria. The officer made me repeat parts of my story so that he could keep up. When we’d finished, he re-read what he’d written, tapping his pencil against the paper.