Chapter 8
With our burglary planned for that night, we had the rest of the day to fill while trying to avoid Mr. Defoe. There is only so much sightseeing to do in a small village, so we’d returned to the hotel by teatime.
Unfortunately, Mr. Defoe and Miss Wheeler were also seated in the shade on the terrace. The American signaled to us to join them.
“Pretend you didn’t see,” I whispered to Oscar.
Oscar had no intention of avoiding them, however. I suspected Miss Wheeler was the reason for that, not her employer. He gave a shallow bow, pulled out another chair, and sat.
“Good afternoon,” he said cheerfully. “What a pleasant day.”
“It’s too hot,” Mr. Defoe grumbled. He squinted up at me, still standing. “Sit down, Professor. You’re making my neck ache.”
I sat. “How do you do. Are you enjoying the sights of Monteoro?”
“The sights don’t interest us, as you well know.”
“Speak for yourself,” Miss Wheeler said.
“Lake Como is magical, and this village one of the prettiest I’ve seen.
” She may be his employee, but sometimes she spoke to him with a directness that implied there was something more personal between them.
Whatever it was, I knew she wasn’t his mistress. She’d said as much, and I believed her.
“I bow to your judgement on these things, Adele. You have seen a great many villages from all corners of the world.”
Oscar arched his brows, intrigued. “Indeed? Where have you been, Miss Wheeler?”
“Too many places to list them all.” She indicated the teapot. “Are you staying for tea? They cater well to English tourists here and the brew is quite good. Shall I order more?”
“They’re not staying.” Mr. Defoe reached into his inside jacket pocket and removed a cigar case and gold vesta box.
“Enough with the pleasantries. The abbot informed me that the book we seek was given to Signore Scala. Adele has informed me that you called on him at Villa Corzoni this morning. Don’t glare at her, Professor. She’s simply doing her job.”
I put up my hands. “I’m not glaring!”
Mr. Defoe grunted. “We have just come from Villa Corzoni ourselves. Signore Scala said he no longer has the book either but cannot recall who he sold it to. That, of course, is a lie.”
As calm as can be, Oscar asked him why he thought so. “You don’t think Signore Scala an honest man?”
Mr. Defoe plugged a cigar between his thin lips and used a match from the vesta to light it. “Adele is good at detecting liars.”
“Particularly men,” she added. “While I wasn’t entirely certain that Signore Scala lied to us, when I recalled your reactions after you left the villa this morning, I came to the conclusion that he had.”
“Our reactions?” Oscar echoed. “I don’t understand.”
“You were in a good mood, Mr. Barratt. I heard you and the professor laughing. You wouldn’t be so happy if the book was lost to you forever.” She picked up her cup, the white of her gloved fingers as pristine as that of the china. “I formed the theory that Signore Scala told you who he sold it to.”
Mr. Defoe removed the cigar from his mouth and blew smoke into the air above Oscar’s head. “And for some reason he didn’t give us the same information.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t like you,” Oscar said.
“He doesn’t have to like me, just my money. He refused it, which in itself is an answer.” He pointed the cigar at Oscar. “You offered him something he needed more than money, and my sources tell me he needs money quite badly.”
“Local gossip may be wrong,” I said. “The villa showed no sign Signore Scala is in financial hardship.”
Mr. Defoe waved off my comment before placing the cigar back into the corner of his mouth. “What did you offer him?”
Oscar barked a laugh. “We’re not telling you.”
“So you did offer him something. Thank you for confirming, Barratt.”
Oscar stood. “Let’s go, Gavin. Miss Wheeler, my invitation to dine with me still stands.”
It was Mr. Defoe’s turn to bark a humorless laugh. “She’s not interested in you, Barratt. She’s far too smart to give up her independence for a handsome face.”
“Lucky for me I’m more than that.” Oscar strode off.
I went to follow, only to double back. “He is more than that, Miss Wheeler. Much more.”
Her eyes flashed at me over the rim of her teacup as she sipped, but it was impossible to read her thoughts on my declaration.
“Careful, Professor.” Mr. Defoe’s lazily droll tone grated my nerves. “If you sell him too well, you may lose him.”
I gave him my fiercest glare, but he merely chuckled around his cigar. “Oscar isn’t for sale.”
“What about the book?” He suddenly leaned forward, all the humor gone from his countenance. He fixed me with an unnerving stare. “I can offer you more money than your patrons. You can fill your entire library with books, if you just tell me where to find the one containing the tattoo spell.”
“I don’t know where it is.”
“But you will find out, won’t you? Scala is going to tell you.”
“If we get our hands on it, we won’t sell the book to you. Good day to you, sir.” I cast another glance at Miss Wheeler, but she simply regarded me levelly, her thoughts still unreadable.
No one would be surprised to learn that darkness made me anxious. Going out in the dark to a strange place ratcheted my anxiety up another notch. I kept alert to my surroundings, but even so, the sudden movement out of the corner of my eye made my heart leap into my throat.
Beside me, Oscar chuckled softly. “It was just the night porter or a guest unable to sleep. We haven’t left the hotel yet.”
I drew in a deep breath to steady my nerves. “We have left the hotel.”
“We’re still within its grounds.”
How could he be so calm? Despite being well after midnight, I felt conspicuous as we walked along the drive to the hotel’s front gate.
I pulled my cap low to hide my face, but then I felt even more conspicuous.
Anyone who saw me would know I was up to something.
Fortunately, that insomniac guest was the only person we saw.
Once we left the gate behind, the streets of Monteoro were silent, still.
And dark.
The lamps lit only the main street where the best hotels were located.
The rest of the village hadn’t been granted the modern luxury of street lighting.
Indeed, it felt very Medieval as we trudged along the well-worn cobbled streets, some sporting the grooves of wheel ruts formed over centuries.
The houses grew smaller further from the center of Monteoro, their shutters open to let in the cooler night air after a hot day.
With enough light from the waxing gibbous moon to guide us, we stayed on the wider main road, not prepared to risk one of the narrow shortcut lanes that sliced through the village.
Unlike the shortcuts, it wound ever upwards on a steady but gentle slope that could be managed by carts. It felt interminable to me, however.
Whenever the gap between us grew more than four or five paces, Oscar waited for me to catch up.
He showed no signs of exertion whereas my breathing was labored, and we still had some way to go.
He glanced past me, scanning the shadows, searching for unsavory types lurking there.
Satisfied that we were alone, he led the way forward again.
It seemed to take forever, but it was probably only fifteen minutes before we reached the faded sign pointing downhill to Pecco.
According to the map I’d studied that afternoon, the fastest route between the two villages was by boat around the head separating them.
If going by land, there were two routes.
One was the road, the other a path. This time, we chose the path.
The map had not told us how steep it would be.
The shortcut lanes through Monteoro were not as steeply sloped nor were they as long.
Whereas the Monteoro lanes cut a swathe through neighboring buildings, the descent into Pecco was lined with a low stone wall on each side, behind which grew dense shrubs and trees.
We seemed to be descending the ancient stone steps for a mile before we finally rejoined the main road in the village at the bottom.
I caught a glimpse between the buildings of the moon’s reflection shimmering like molten silver on the lake’s surface.
The shore wasn’t far from where we stood at the village’s edge.
Pecco was indeed much smaller than Monteoro.
It was little more than a row of stuccoed houses wedged between the shoreline and the street.
The piazza could barely be called as such.
Roughly square, a vine-covered chapel stood on one side and a warehouse on the other.
At its foot was the lake’s edge. Three fishing boats had been pulled out of the water, while several others were moored to iron rings along the stone wall on one side of the inlet. The stink of fish hung in the air.
Oscar drew my attention to the warehouse. No, not a warehouse. The faded white painted letters above the double doors read COLOMBO. This must be the boat building shed of Giovanni Colombo, the man who’d stolen Signore Scala’s wood strengthening spell.
Oscar signaled for me to follow him. He tried the double doors, only to find them locked. The smaller door to the side was unlocked, however. He opened it and slipped inside. I waited until he’d lit the oil lantern hanging on a hook before closing the door on him.
As agreed, I waited outside and turned my attention to the shadows surrounding the piazza. All was silent and the only movement came from the moonlight shimmering on the water, and my own nervous shivers.
Mere moments passed before the door re-opened. “Found it already?” I whispered.
Oscar jerked his head to indicate I should follow him inside. “You need to see this.”
I stayed close to him as he clutched the lantern high to cast the light as wide as possible but even so, the darkness beyond its glow was deep. I could make out the shapes of boat hulls, some stacked crates, and a small forge with the glowing remnants of a fire, but little else.
Then a pair of booted feet came into view. They were connected to a man’s body lying on the floor. He didn’t move.
I gasped. “Is he dead?”
“Going by the amount of blood, I’d say so.” Oscar stepped closer and cast the light over the upper torso.
The man’s hair was matted with blood and had pooled beneath the head. Thank goodness the face was turned away. I didn’t want to see the vacant stare.
Oscar pointed at a hammer a few feet away. “The murder weapon.”
“Murder! Are you sure it’s not an accident? Perhaps he fell and hit his head on something.”
“There’s blood, hair and what appear to be fragments of skull on the hammer, but not on anything else in the vicinity. Except the floor, of course.”
I turned away and bent forward, gasping air into my lungs and willing myself not to throw up.
“Sorry,” Oscar said. “Are you all right?”
I nodded, but did not look again at the ghastly sight.
“Go back outside,” Oscar said. “I’ll be as quick as possible.”
“You’re going to keep searching for the spell?”
“I’d barely begun when I saw him.” He held the lantern high again and looked around. “That bench has some paperwork on it. I’ll start there.”
“Oscar, we have to report the body to the Carabinieri.” I dogged his steps to the desk, partly because I wanted to encourage him to leave, but mostly because I wanted to stay near the light. “Oscar, we can’t stay here a moment longer. What if someone comes? We’ll be accused of killing that man.”
“Then help me. It’ll be faster.”
I huffed in frustration, when I realized he wasn’t leaving without the spell, I searched through the scattered papers, too.
They were mostly unpaid bills, both money owed by the boatbuilder and money owed to him, from what I could tell.
Most interesting of all were plans drawn up for a large factory.
The address for the facility was in Milan.
It seemed Signore Scala was right—Giovanni Colombo wanted to expand his business.
A wood magician speaking a strengthening spell would be of great use to him, as would the spell itself.
Oscar went to move the chair out of the way so he could access a set of drawers under the bench, but a soft gasp from the depths of the boatshed made him freeze.
Oscar quickly picked up the lantern, intending to turn the flame down or off, but it was too late.
The person who’d gasped emerged from the darkness.
“Miss Wheeler!” I wasn’t sure if I was more shocked to discover that she’d followed us, or that she wore men’s clothing. Like us, her outfit was all black, even the neckerchief at her throat.
She shushed me with a finger to her lips. “There’s a dead body back there!”
Oscar moved around the bench to join her. “We know. Are you all right?”
“Of course I am. Mr. Barratt, we have to get out of here now. If we’re caught—”
“We didn’t kill him,” I said.
“It doesn’t matter, Professor. We are foreigners with an interest in magic.”
“What does magic have to do with the murder?” Oscar asked.
“Perhaps nothing, but it is here. I brushed one of the boat hulls near the door and felt magic heat.”
“Why would our interest in magic make us more likely suspects?”
“It may not, but it’s worth bearing in mind that the magicians’ recent fight for freedom here in Italy has spilled over to the current anarchist movement. The two are inextricably linked.” The usually composed Miss Wheeler sounded worried, and that worried me.
I grabbed Oscar’s arm and urged him toward the exit. “Let’s go.”
Thankfully, he didn’t resist. Indeed, he led the way, lantern held at arm’s length in front of him.
The sound of voices outside stopped us dead in our tracks.
My heart pounded. My mouth went dry. The voices were so close to the door now that I could make out there were two men, both speaking Italian.
Oscar had extinguished the lantern’s flame as soon as he heard them.
He gently set it down, out of the way, and removed a knife from his jacket pocket.
The metal of a blade also flashed in Miss Wheeler’s hand, but I didn’t know where she’d kept it hidden.
I was glad I hadn’t thought to bring a weapon.
I doubted I could stab someone, no matter how much danger I was in.
In the darkness, I could just make out Oscar signaling for us to join him beside the door. “Get ready to run,” he whispered.
The moment it opened, we barged past the two men, knocking the first one off his feet. He careened into the second man, which made him lose his balance, too. It gave us precious seconds in which to escape.
But not before I recognized the second man. He was the thickset, thuggish looking fellow we’d seen among the trees on our return from the abbey the day before, the one exchanging a package with another fellow. He’d not followed us then, but we couldn’t risk him not following us this time.
We kept running, taking the steep, more direct path we’d used on our way into the village instead of the winding road. It was a long way up. I would never make it.