“Where are you?” Rosa asked.
“I’m here.” She was tired; her sails were deflated, and she was attempting to catch her second wind. “What did you think of the food?”
“Not bad,” the madam said. “The sauce was a little heavy, and only one course, a disgrace for such a large house. No dessert to speak of—tiny cookies with caffè.”
“Renata’s pastry, otherwise there would have been no dessert. But what they served was a luncheon. They dine in the evening.”
“Strange,” Rosa said.
“A borrowed custom. From one of the baron’s remarks, some of his business associates are British. They have their villas all around here, you know.”
“Of course I know. Some of them were customers of the house, probably still are, but I didn’t encourage it; they’re fussy and snooty and have no humor, and my girls didn’t really seem to please them … I didn’t hire their type.”
“Like the baron?”
Rosa smoothed her skirts. “I’ve changed my mind about him.”
“Yes, I thought his tears would flood the room, but he truly loves his wife.”
“Loved, you mean.”
Serafina shook her head. “Still does, poor soul.”
Silence until the madam spoke. “Aren’t we going to see Renata? We shouldn’t be leaving her all alone with the cook.”
“In a moment.” Serafina stared at the scene before her. Presently, she saw men congregating on the pier. Although she had a clear view, they were far enough away that the pier and the ships and the men looked like toys in a nursery; the sounds they made were swallowed by the roar of the sea. Serafina watched as the throng grew to a crowd, and dust puffed around them. It appeared to be the start of an altercation of some sort, and soon a police wagon came into view and turned onto the pier. “What’s happening?”
The madam shook her head. “There’s more than citrus being loaded onto the baron’s ship, and someone from his household will arrive soon to grease the way.”
“Your mind runs in strange circles,” Serafina said.
“Wait for a bit.”
A few minutes later, Serafina felt movement somewhere in back of her. Turning around, she saw a carriage pull up and stop in front of the big house.
The madam slapped her thigh and grinned.
“Means nothing. Someone is going somewhere, that’s all,” Serafina said.
“Of course, the son,” Rosa said. “He’s going to the harbor.”
“Not the father?”
Rosa’s eyes were slits.
The carriage waited, the horses blowing steam. In the harbor, the dust thickened, and from time to time, Serafina saw a man in blue, bent and with sleeves rolled, gesturing toward the ship and waving his hat up and down.
Soon she heard the villa’s front door open.
Without turning around to see for herself, the madam said, “Don’t tell me, it’s Naldo.” She continued to stare at the crowd of workers on the wharf.
Serafina saw the son get into the barouche and watched as it pulled away, the horses hooves making righteous clops on the gravel. “How did you know?” Serafina asked, amazed as always at the madam’s quick grasp when it came to business.
In a few minutes, the carriage stopped in front of the wharf, and Naldo sauntered over to the police wagon, removing his top hat and leaning into the driver, his back supplicatory as he gestured toward the ship and the men. He pulled something out of his pocket and passed it to the driver who jumped from his seat.
Late afternoon light marred her view. As she waited for the sun, now a great ball of fire, to change its angle, she asked again about the son. “Could he have killed his mother? He denied it, but what do you think?”
“The son? Doubtful. He’s still hurt because his mother sent him away to school, a child’s temper allowed to smolder. Simple.” The madam folded her fat fingers and continued to watch the scene on the wharf as some of the men were hauled over and thrown into the wagon. Presently the police van and the son’s carriage drove away. The dust settled, and the sun edged toward the west as the crowds dispersed, and the loading of goods resumed.
Rosa chuckled. “What coins won’t do!”
“What are you talking about?”
“A rough path made smooth.” Rosa smiled. “But back to the son. A cold fish, that one.”
Serafina thought of her children and of how much she missed them. The image of Totò appeared as he tried on his surplice while juice from the fig he was chewing spilled onto the sleeve. “His mother hurt him, no question of that, and the hurt was allowed to stand. I feel so sorry for him, the fruit of her disregard,” Serafina said.
“Now you’re talking balderdash.”
“And no wonder the son and father bury themselves in business. I’m surprised the son’s turned out so well.”
“You don’t know that he has,” the madam said.
“But if you ask me, there’s something almost rabid about their pursuit of business.”
“Best find out what’s in that hold before the ship sails,” the madam said.
Serafina was silent for a while. “The son’s not one of your customers, is he?”
“Not while I owned the house. His kind are trouble. Did you see his eyes? Unreadable, unreachable. But you’d have to see how he treats his wife and children to see how he’s turned out.”
“And how could the sister love her mother and be so devastated by her loss, while the son is so treacherous in his hate for her?”
Rosa shook her head. “Don’t look to me for those answers. You’re the wizard.”
“Could he be the child of an illicit union by the baron and one of his servants, raised as their child, resented by the baroness?”
“Hardly. It’s just not done. Besides, the baron used my house and others to dampen his appetites, and at that, he was a cold fish, according to one of my girls.”
Silent, Serafina mulled over what she had learned so far, dwelling on their interview with the baron, the strange behavior of the son, the altercation on the pier. What arrested her, however, was an image—those small crates piled on top of one another, their sides filled with strange writing, symbols she was unable to fathom even through a telescope, their existence brushed aside by the baron. They burned in her mind, bright and inexplicable, sitting on the wharf, seemingly ignored, like Naldo had been by his mother.
“Your mind again,” the madam said.
Missing
Breathless, Serafina galloped into the baron’s study and stood in front of his desk, where he sat engrossed in reading a document. “They’re missing, all of them, the baroness’s journals.”
He looked up, not comprehending.
“Forgive my abrupt intrusion, but there’s been a theft, and you must do something about it. Between the three of us—Rosa, Doucette, and I—we found forty-two volumes of Lady Caterina’s journals, some in her room, others in the ladies’ parlor, still others outside in the gazebo. We gathered them all and put them on top of the desk in my room. Now they’re gone, simply disappeared.”
He stared at her, unable, it seemed, to speak, his face a mixture of consternation and disbelief.
From behind her came a voice, “Could there be a misunderstanding?”
Familiar, that voice. She swiveled around.
“Surprised to see me, Serafina?” Don Tigro asked. He flashed his teeth, more in a show of power than in a smile. “Had you locked the door to your room?”
She nodded, trying to hide her surprise. “I arranged the journals in neat piles on the desk, counted forty-two of them—there were six piles, seven books in each pile—then locked the door to my room and went downstairs to speak with the baron. Afterward, I met with his son. Rosa and I went outside for a breath of fresh air and gazed for a while at
the … activity on the dock. I was away from my room for, what, perhaps two hours? When I returned, the journals were gone.”
The don acted as if he were concerned. “Could you have moved them and forgotten about it? Time to time, I’ve done that. Been preoccupied with a problem, moved something to where I thought it would be safer, forgotten that I’d moved it and then confused myself when I didn’t see it in its original spot.”
What an actor, Serafina thought, he’s Mr. Helpful Dignitary, loved by all in front of the baron, the businessman he so desperately needs as a trusted associate.
“So you’re saying that someone entered your room and took my wife’s journals from your desk?”
“Yes.”
“This seems silly. Why do you need to read Caterina’s journals?”
Serafina could not believe the baron’s question. How much would she need to explain? For now, she decided she’d go for the minimum. “Part of my investigation.”
“Has your lock been broken or tampered with in any way? Did you see any marks around the keyhole?” he asked.
She hesitated, picturing the door and the lock and the keyhole, before shaking her head. “No. I was not thorough, I’m afraid. Just now, I unlocked the door, but did not examine the lock.” She paused. “But I think I would have noticed had there been damage, unless it was subtle.”
“Could have been a professional. They leave no clues.” Don Tigro smiled. “But why would anyone steal a woman’s journals?”
Hateful, the predicament she’d gotten herself into by bursting into the baron’s office. In future, she must be more careful. Now she’d given that despicable thug license to talk to her as if they were equals, a concerned friend trying to help. She continued. “I walked over to the desk. For an instant, I thought perhaps I’d stowed them in a drawer for safekeeping or in the closet, so I looked everywhere, in all the cabinet drawers, under the bed, in the closet, but no, they were nowhere in the room.” She pictured Rosa walking in with the footman and adding more books, pictured the desk and the books on top of them, mentally counted them for the umpteenth time. “No, I’ve just reviewed my actions. They are missing, all of them.”
“There must be some misunderstanding.” The baron rang for the butler.
“And this is not the first time, either.” Looking at Don Tigro while she relayed the information, Serafina told the baron about the theft of the journal Genoveffa had given her yesterday. “It was returned, but pages were missing. In light of the theft today, it seems clear that there is someone with a long arm who is afraid of what these journals contain. It validates my investigation into the death of the baroness, but makes it far more difficult. She lifted her eyes and gazed at the baron. “Now we must make the investigation public.”
Neither man replied, but the baron was visibly shaken. Serafina could hear faint sounds coming from the harbor. While he waited for Umbrello to appear, the baron, recovering from his initial shock, looked at Serafina. “I appreciate that you must be upset, but do not worry, my dear. Above all, no hasty action.” His face remained impassive, and the color slowly returned to his face. “There must be an innocent and quite simple explanation. Perhaps, misinterpreting your direction, a servant moved the books to another room—the ladies’ parlor on the first floor, for instance, or a corner in my wife’s room, accessible but out of the way. Best let me handle this.”
“Who would have a key to my room?” Serafina asked.
“My dear, I repeat, let me handle this.” The flush rode up his neck and flooded his cheeks. “Where is that butler?” He yanked the cord again.
The Tall Grass
Serafina found Rosa where she knew she would, sitting in the gazebo and staring out at the water. Surprised at Serafina’s disarray and mood, the madam asked if she’d seen a ghost. “Sit here, you’ll feel better.”
She told Rosa about the theft, about her horror at seeing her desk empty of books, about barging into the baron’s study without thinking and, to her great consternation, meeting up with the don—of all people—sitting in an overstuffed chair behind her, pleased as a potentate. As she told her story, Rosa tried to hide it, but Serafina could see that the madam was shaken, so they sat for a while, trying to calm themselves, waiting for the shock of it to ebb so that she, Serafina, could think clearly and alter her plan while the baron’s servants searched for the books. She watched the tall grasses bending toward the sea, their underbellies shimmering in the wind. These high grasses were a distinctive feature of the grounds, she decided. They were everywhere, surrounding the outbuildings and ornamental pools and on the edges of the grounds as if they held Villa Caterina in their grip. There was something about them she could not quite put her finger on. They had a mesmerizing effect on her, as if they held the secret of the house, and she expected to see some sort of mythical beast rising up from them at any moment.
As if reading her thoughts, Rosa said, “Something spooky about this place. The spider crawls up my spine. And that little girl, what’s her name?”
“Adriana.”
“Sweet little thing, but weird all the same. If my Tessa acted like Adriana, she’d get her hide whipped once and that would be the end of it, I can tell you. And the nurse, or governess or whatever she is, gives me the creeps.”
Serafina was quiet for a while, and when she spoke, she told Rosa about the child’s vision of her mother walking about the grounds in the middle of the night, doubtless the fantasy of a child grieving for the loss of her mother, but the telling deepened Serafina’s sense of foreboding: at her core, she felt the mysterious atmosphere at Villa Caterina. However much Serafina knew she needed to distance herself from fear and cultivate a clear head, she could not seem to shake her mood, and her temples throbbed. When she shut her eyes, she saw the undulating grasses, now appearing in bright colors in her imagination, and heard a strange wind blowing through them, so she opened her eyes and gazed at the sea.
The two were silent, listening to the waves crashing against the seawall.
“Are you sorry you came?” Serafina asked.
Rosa looked at Serafina and smiled. “Just disappointed in the food.” She walked over to the front of the gazebo and looked out at the ship, remarking at all the activity on deck. “It’s a mystery to me how a being like the baroness has so many words to begin with and why she’d ever want them, and still less, why she’d ever want to write them down.”
“Some people are consumed with words. They fill the mind until they flow out the fingers onto the page to be read by others.”
“Or not at all.”
“That’s why there are books,” Serafina said.
“Daft, if you ask me,” the madam said and fanned her face.
Serafina was quiet a moment longer before speaking again. “Genoveffa mentioned that she thought there might be other volumes, that her mother was always writing in something or other, but she gave me the one book only.”
“But why wouldn’t she have kept the others?”
Serafina shook her head, turned away from the harbor, and looked at Rosa. “Forgive me for not anticipating them, but complications spoil our plans for an early finish to this investigation. I’m afraid we’ll be here longer than I intended.”
“Nonsense. The food’s no good here; the spooks haunt the place, and I’m ready for action, so we must get a move on, search for the stolen journals before we do anything else. The nun realized it would take time; that’s why she gave you such a handsome retainer—the wealthy don’t part lightly with their coins.”
As they walked toward the house, Serafina chewed on Rosa’s words. “Perhaps the baron’s correct and there is a simple explanation as to why the journals are missing.”
“The baron sees what he wants to see, I’m afraid, and that’s never the way to wisdom. Not bright, the baron, to begin with, and his position in society blinds
him even more. Take his son, blighted by something bleak and forbidding when he was a child, something he has not the ken to confront, his chance for a reasoned existence fled years ago, but the baron looks at him and sees his son, young and strong and full of vigor and doesn’t see him as he is. How difficult it is for us to see the truth in those we love.”
Despite herself, Serafina smiled at Rosa’s speech—her friend, turning into a philosopher? Not a chance, she’s trying to make me feel better, Serafina thought, and was comforted by Rosa’s efforts. “Perhaps the housekeeper misunderstood and moved them to the baroness’s room, I didn’t even think to check.”
The madam shook her head. “You don’t make mistakes.”
Rosa’s instant belief warmed Serafina and gave her hope when she needed it most, but that had always been the case. During the war when they’d had to close the apothecary shop and coins stopped flowing, who contrived for the family’s safety? Rosa. It was a story whose contours were repeated time and again, and she wondered what her life would be like without her friend’s quick grasp of the practical and her generosity of spirit. With Rosa by her side, how could she fail? Walking next to her, her spirits calmed and her mood lifted, and she began to concentrate on the task at hand.
“While the servants search inside for the books, let’s find the high ground and survey the area. Perhaps we will learn something from that vantage point.”
They entered the house and went into the baron’s study. It was empty. Presumably he searched for the books as well, fired by the fear of exposure should her investigation become public, but his telescope was on its stand, so Serafina grabbed it.
As they walked through the atrium, she saw a maid standing next to a potted plant and asked her to show them the way to the top of the house. “We’d like the clearest view of the grounds.”
“You’ll want the roof garden, ma’am, at the top of the main staircase. I’ll be ever so glad to show you.”
Death In Bagheria (A Serafina Florio Mystery) Page 12