Vintage Love

by Clarissa Ross

  “He had a thin beard and a sallow face,” she said. “I would know him if I saw him again.”

  “In that disguise, you would,” Raphael explained. “But next time you’ll meet him in some different guise. He is a master of makeup.”

  “He killed Gregorio and he let me escape.”

  Raphael nodded. “Sure. He still thinks you have the Madonna. He’s giving you a chance to lead him to it.”

  “You think that is it?”

  “I haven’t a doubt.”

  She suddenly remembered what the strange old man had said: “Find Pasquale Borgo!” He had said this urgently as if it were of the utmost importance. And for various reasons she decided not to mention his words to Raphael. Time to tell him later. She had sent him on enough wild goose chases for the moment, put his life in danger too many times.

  She said, “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “Bringing you here. Getting you hurt.”

  “What about yourself?”

  She shrugged. “Gregorio is dead! He’ll never attack me again.”

  “I can understand your being comforted by that,” he said. “But the fact remains you’ve suffered as badly as I.”

  She said, “I was wrong in coming here after him. You told me so.”

  “That can’t be helped now,” he said, rising and helping her to her feet. “We can be thankful we’re still alive.”

  “Yes,” she said. “You’re right.” She looked up into his white face. “About tomorrow night, going to Barsini’s and trying to get into his orgy. I can’t hold you to it. Not after tonight.”

  He said, “Are you ready to give up the project?”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “It does to me,” he said. “I want to know.”

  “Irma is my sister. I must try and find her.”

  “And she is my betrothed, remember?” he said.

  “It could be much more dangerous than tonight,” she warned him.

  “At least we won’t have Gregorio to contend with,” was his reply.

  “You want to go through with it?”

  “I do,” he said. “Now we must find a carriage and get you back to the palace as quickly as possible.”

  They trudged several blocks of cobblestoned streets before they were able to hail an empty carriage. Raphael was grimly quiet and when he kissed her goodnight, she told him he should consult a doctor if his head continued to ache.

  “It’s better now,” he told her. “What about you?”

  “I’ll be all right,” she said wearily.

  “I hope so,” he said, his eyes grave as he stared at her. “I’m glad Brizzi or whoever it was killed that bully.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll be here to pick you up tomorrow evening,” he promised.

  She went inside and saw Prince Sanzio in his wheelchair, his white head slumped in sleep as he waited for her. She felt sorry for the old man. As she watched him he raised his head and opened his eyes to stare at her sleepily.

  “You are back,” he said.

  “Yes, a little late,” she told him. She hoped he would not notice her rumpled dress or undone hair.

  He seemed not to look at her as he said, “I’m afraid I fell asleep. It’s a problem of my old age.”

  “You ought not to have waited up for me,” she told him, then bent and kissed him on the cheek.

  “I feel so useless of late,” he said with a sigh. “The least I could do was wait up and see you safely inside.”

  “You have,” she said with a wan smile. “Now let us both get to bed at once.”

  They said their goodnights and she went upstairs and was happy to find a supply of hot water had been left her in a clay jug. She used this along with some cold water to make a bath for herself. After stretching out in the enamel tub for a good while and thoroughly soaping and washing herself she felt less contaminated.

  The events of the evening now seemed unreal to her. She found it hard to believe that all this had happened. Suddenly a wave of utter exhaustion came over her. She felt she would sleep in spite of everything.

  • • •

  With the coming of the sun through her window the next morning she awoke feeling better than she had hoped. Not that she was at all herself. The scars of the grim doings of the previous night could not be erased that easily. She somehow managed to get through breakfast and answer her aunt’s questions about the opera.

  Aunt Isobel said primly, “You don’t seem to have properly enjoyed the opera! I think Carmen a most moving experience.”

  She said, “The opera was only part of our evening.”

  Aunt Isobel showed disapproval. “I imagine you spent much of the evening at some expensive restaurant after the performance. In my day a young woman was content to be taken home from the opera without expecting fine food and drink! And I must say you look none the better for it!”

  Prince Sanzio wheeled himself into the room and told the older woman, “Don’t nag at her, dear lady.” And to Della he said, “Did you enjoy the opera?”

  “Very much,” she said.

  “Ah, yes,” he mused. “I dare say Carmen has to be one of the all-time favorites. Di Carlo sang last night. Was he in good voice?”

  “I would say so,” she said. “Though I’m truly no judge.”

  Aunt Isobel told the old Prince, “These young people are interested only in themselves and in being seen in their finery. It was different when I was a girl.”

  “I’m sure it must have been,” the old Prince said with a smile for Della.

  She was glad to escape and leave them in a discussion of old times and old customs. Upstairs she paced her room and debated what she should do. She wanted to try and discover who Pasquale Borgo might be. But she hadn’t told Raphael anything about it and Henry still had not returned to help her. Who could she turn to?

  And then she had an idea! Father Walker, the priest attached to the Vatican Museum. He had knowledge of the theft. She decided to journey to the Vatican on her own again.

  She went out and found Guido supervising the cleaning of the hallway. The little man came to her and bowed. “Can I help you in any way, signorina?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I want to use the carriage. And I don’t wish to attract any attention.”

  His wizened face was grave. “Yes, signorina.”

  “Would you have the carriage ready and waiting at the side entrance to the palace? In that way I can escape without my aunt or Prince Sanzio being aware of it.”

  Guido nodded. “I will arrange it, signorina.”

  “I’m going to the Vatican to see someone,” she said. “I do not know how long I will be. If they ask where I’ve gone you can tell them.”

  “Depend on me,” the wizened little man said.

  She hesitated. “One more thing. I doubt if you can help me.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  She gave him a searching look. “Have you ever heard of anyone named Pasquale Borgo?”

  He showed surprise. “Borgo! The name is a familiar one. I know many Borgos. There are several families of them in my native village. But I do not know any Pasquale Borgo.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I doubted that you might.”

  “If there is any urgent reason to find out about this Pasquale Borgo I could make some discreet inquiries?” the midget suggested.

  “Let it go for the moment,” she said. “I doubt it is all that important.”

  “Very well, signorina,” the little man said. “Your carriage will be ready in ten minutes.”

  She ordered the carriage to drop her off at the entrance to St. Peter’s Square. It was a warm day with the blazing sun beginning to reach its peak. She wore a white dress with lace jabot and trim and a straw hat with a wide brim and daisies. As she made her way across the broad square to look for Father Walker she was impressed that there were already a goodly number of pilgrims visiting the area.

  Reaching the in
quiry desk of the museum where she had been told Father Walker was a staff member, she asked for him. “May I speak with Father Walker?”

  The bald-headed old brother in charge of the desk stared at her with weak-eyed interest. “Are you a relative?”

  “No, a friend,” she said. “My name is Standish. He will know it. I have an urgent need to talk with him.”

  The elderly brother looked baffled. “I cannot go to him now. He is attending a staff meeting.”

  “How long will that be?”

  The old man in the black robe shrugged. “The better part of an hour.”

  She said, “Will you give him my message as soon as he comes out?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I shall come back in about an hour,” she promised.

  “Very well,” the old brother said with a smile. “Enjoy our museum. It has many treasures.”

  Della thanked the friendly old man and strolled around the museum for a while. She went from one rich corridor to another, with each succeeding one seeming to hold more opulent treasure. There were Flemish and other tapestries, masterpieces of the goldsmith’s and jeweler’s art, gifts from various foreign countries and a library begun by Nicholas the Fifth.

  This concentration of art treasures dazzled her. She found herself wondering what the stolen Madonna of St. Cecilia had looked like and whether it had ever been on display with these other valuable pieces.

  She had an overwhelming desire for air and went out to St. Peter’s Square again. She walked to one of the great fountains and enjoyed the cooling spray that came from it.

  Suddenly from behind her a familiar voice exclaimed, “Dear Miss Standish!” She turned and saw it was none other than Madame Guioni.

  “Madame Guioni!” she said. “I never thought to meet you here.”

  The big woman was wearing another of her monstrous, garish outfits, something purple with yellow trim and a large, wide-brimmed purple hat which drooped and was decorated with lush-looking grapes! She was truly a study in purple, her parasol included.

  “I have been showing a visitor from England around,” the woman said in her loud voice. Several people nearby turned to stare at her.

  “I see,” Della said politely.

  “My friend wanted to see the basilica inside and I did not feel up to it, so I told her to go on and I would wait for her here. Now I regret that I did it; she’s bound to be gone for an eternity!”

  Della smiled. “I’m also waiting for someone. A priest employed in the Vatican Museum.”

  “How interesting!” the older woman said. “And what about that vulgar little Father Anthony?”

  She said, “I have heard that he is dead.”

  “Dead?” Madame Guioni looked surprised. “Well, I suppose one shouldn’t be too startled. The way he ate and no doubt drank. He had a gigantic paunch.”

  Since Madame Guioni had assumed he’d died a natural death Della decided to let it go at that. She said, “I have found Rome most interesting.”

  “I told you that you would,” the ugly woman said. She indicated St. Peter’s and said, “Look at that! A wonder of our civilized world! The magnificent dome and the façade! You will note the various figures perched on the edge of the roof at the front! Each a sculpture of perfection!”

  “It is awesome!” she agreed.

  “The façade alone is 374 feet long and 136 feet high,” Madame Guioni told her. “Eight columns and four pillars support it. Between the columns is the Papal window from which the Pope gives his blessing! Not that any of the religious aspect impresses me, but the beauty of it all cannot be ignored.”

  “I remember,” she said. “You are a free-thinker.”

  “My late husband was a devout Catholic,” Madame Guioni went on. “And so was his brother and the others of his family. Fine for them. But not for me, I say.”

  “I’m sure you respected each other’s views,” Della said.

  “You can believe that,” the big woman said. With a gesture of her parasol, she informed, “Beyond the portico with its statues of Constantine and Charlemagne is the ‘Jubilee Door’ which is opened only every twenty-five years during Holy Week.”

  “For a person outside the Church you are very familiar with it,” Della said.

  “One cannot live in Rome and not know a great deal of Catholic lore,” Madame Guioni said. “And how is the Prince Sanzio?”

  “He is well considering his age,” she said. “Of course he is confined to a wheelchair because of his rheumatism.”

  “How soon we all grow old,” Madame Guioni said with a sigh. “You are fortunate in having your youth.”

  “It can also be a difficult time.”

  “But you have so much ahead,” the older woman said. “Ah, but I must not bore you with my philosophy. The last time we talked you mentioned having some sort of problem, but it seems to have completely fled my mind. Do not think ill of me.”

  “Certainly not,” she said. “I’m sure you have many problems of your own.”

  “Being a widow and trying to operate a business is most difficult,” the garishly dressed woman said with a sigh.

  “I’m sure it must be,” she agreed politely.

  “That is why I have not had any parties lately,” Madame Guioni said. “And my parties were the talk of Rome.”

  “I’m sorry I won’t be attending one.”

  “And so am I, my dear,” the woman sighed. “My parties were wonderful! Everyone wanted to come! Everyone! But now I’m too old and tired to give another.”

  “Perhaps one day,” Della said.

  Madame Guioni brightened. “What a lovely child you are! You are quite wise as well. I may yet live to give another grand party. And I shall send you an invitation even if you’ve returned to England.”

  “And I shall try to attend,” Della promised.

  Madame Guioni gave an impatient gasp. “I really must go and find that impossible woman,” she declared. “No doubt she has lost herself somewhere.”

  “The basilica is vast and takes a while to see.”

  “Surely not this long,” Madame Guioni said. “You will excuse me, my dear, while I go look for her.”

  “Of course,” she said, relieved to be left alone. “I hope we meet again before I leave Rome.”

  Madame Guioni smiled at her. “How nice of you to say that. And I’m sure that we shall!” She waved daintily to her as she walked away toward the entrance to the basilica. Della remained in the square for a short while and then returned to the museum.

  When she reached the desk she felt a surge of hope as she saw Father Walker standing talking with the elderly brother to whom she’d entrusted her message. She at once went to them.

  “Father Walker,” she said with a smile.

  The serious-faced young priest turned to her and studied her good-humoredly from behind his glasses. “Good day to you, Miss Standish.”

  They shook hands. She said, “You received my message?”

  “Yes. I hoped you might have brought something back to us.”

  “Not quite that.”

  “Too bad.”

  “I agree,” she said. “But I think I may be getting closer to the details of the theft. And from there I may be able to locate the Madonna.”

  Father Walker said, “That would be fine.”

  She hesitated, then asked, “I feel weak. Is there anyplace near where we can get good food and drink?”

  “Yes,” he said. “There’s an excellent sidewalk café not far from here with umbrellas at all the tables. Let us go there.”

  “You shall be my guest,” she said.

  “My vow of poverty isn’t all that encompassing,” the young priest smiled. “I insist on being the host for the occasion.”

  “If you insist,” she said with a smile.

  The walk proved longer than she had expected. But it was a pleasant one in the company of the friendly young priest. He pointed out places of interest all along the way and when they reached the outdoor
café with its many tables, she felt the journey well worthwhile.

  Across the table, she said, “I feel I want to help your Cardinal get his Madonna back. He was kind to me and he accepted what I told him as the truth.”

  Father Walker looked amused. “The Cardinal is a shrewd judge of character. He did believe you.”

  “It meant a great deal to me,” she said with a sigh. “So few other people have. Are you still looking for the Madonna?”

  “Yes. We are working in our own way.”

  She looked down at the table. “My luck has all been bad. My sister is still missing and they still threaten us with worse if the Madonna is not turned over to them.”

  “So they are of an opinion opposite to the Cardinal’s. They continue to think you have the Madonna.”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Well, you must make the best of it. In their very desperation they may foolishly reveal themselves. We have much to discuss. But first let us order.”

  Both chose light salads and wine. The food and drink proved excellent and set the mood for conversation.

  Father Walker smiled at her. “As I recall our last meeting, I rescued you from defrocked Father Anthony and his thumbscrew torture weapon.”

  “I’m not liable to forget that night,” she said. “Did you know he was murdered?”

  “Yes,” Father Walker said. “A pity! But he was living a sinful life.”

  “I know.”

  “So he joined Brother Louis in death,” the priest said.

  “Do you think he was murdered by the same person who murdered Brother Louis?”

  “No question.”

  “Who?”

  “Brizzi,” Father Walker said.

  “There has been still a third murder,” she told him. “One of Barsini’s staunch Satanists, named Gregorio, was stabbed to death last night.”

  The priest nodded. “In a brothel.”

  She gasped. “How do you know?”

  “I told you we are still working on the return of the Madonna. Gregorio was a partner with Barsini in its theft. They took it from Brizzi with the help of Brother Louis and Father Anthony. It seems Father Anthony persuaded Brother Louis to steal the Madonna from Brizzi, this after he’d helped in its theft.”