Chapter 5
“Before you get cross with me,” Oscar said as we left the abbey behind, “there’s a reason I didn’t tell you I wrote to the abbot.”
“I am already cross,” I said.
Oscar studied me with arched brows.
“And may I point out that you didn’t just write to the abbot without telling me, you bribed him.”
“It was a donation, not a bribe.”
“I beg to differ.”
He blew out an exasperated breath. “Gavin, I didn’t confide in you because I knew you would object.”
“You can read my mind, can you?”
“Don’t be churlish. I do know you well enough to guess how you would have reacted to me wanting to coincide our visit here with Miss Wheeler’s.”
“And Defoe’s. Or have you forgotten the robber baron she works for, the one who tried outbidding us for the Mackenzie book in Scotland last year?”
“Tried and failed. And no, I didn’t forget about him. He was at the forefront of my mind.”
I snorted. “As was Miss Wheeler, evidently. Don’t pretend this isn’t about her and your ridiculous feelings for her.”
He stopped. “Ridiculous!”
I stopped too, and apologized. I hadn’t meant to be cruel. “Not ridiculous. That isn’t the right word. All I mean is, first you fall in love with India, then Lady Louisa, and now Miss Wheeler. You’re fickle at best, Oscar, and…” I trailed off and resumed walking.
“Pathetic?” He fell into step alongside me.
“Is that what you were going to say?” When I didn’t answer, he added, “I was never in love with India. I admired her. And the way I feel about Miss Wheeler is different to how I felt with Louisa. I can’t explain it, but I do know that even after a year of not seeing her, I can’t stop thinking about her.
” When I still didn’t respond, he continued.
“I may blindly follow where my heart leads, but at least I do something about the feelings bubbling away inside me.”
My jaw dropped, but I quickly closed my mouth.
I had no desire to continue with the argument we’d started after returning from Scotland.
I’d said everything I wanted to say on the subject of my nature, and it was best left at that, particularly when Brother Eduardo’s intense gazes were still fresh in my mind.
We fell into a strained silence, our strides purposeful as we followed the sloping road back to Monteoro.
Olive groves gave way to the lush vegetation rising up on either side of the road.
The trees were at their densest where the road forked into two branches, one leading to Pecco, the other Monteoro.
The tree canopies almost met overhead, blocking out the remaining light.
All around us it went dark, as if the remaining candle in a room had been existinguished.
Oscar suddenly caught my arm, forcing me to stop. “Did you hear that?” he whispered.
I had heard the distinctive clink of coins, too. I also saw the two men standing several feet away among the trees. One had been handing the other a pouch when they spotted us. They both squared their shoulders. The larger of the two cracked his knuckles.
Then they charged toward us.
Oscar swore and pushed me ahead of him. I ran, relieved to hear his footsteps right behind me. Although he probably had a knife on him, he’d have been foolish to attempt to fight off two brigands. Even if they weren’t armed, they looked like they could do a lot of damage with their fists.
I wasn’t as athletic as Oscar and he soon overtook me. “Faster Gavin!” he urged with a glance over his shoulder. His pace suddenly slowed, however, allowing me to catch up. “They’re not following.”
I slowed too and sucked in several deep breaths. We walked swiftly the rest of the way to Monteoro, keeping one eye on our surroundings lest those men jump out at us. Thankfully we reached the village without incident.
We spotted two Carabinieri chatting in the piazza outside the church where we’d stopped to drink from the fountain earlier. Oscar suggested we report the incident.
“There are two highwaymen on the approach road,” he told them.
At their shrugs, I said, “It’s not a highway, Oscar. They may not be familiar with the word highwayman.”
“Good point.” He turned back to the Carabinieri officers. “Thieves.”
They shrugged again.
“Robbers. Brigands. Bandits.” At their somewhat bored looks, Oscar made a slicing motion with his finger across his throat while pointing with his other hand in the direction we’d just come from.
“The robbers cut your throat?” one of the Carabinieri asked, proving he spoke English after all. “I do not see blood.”
“They may have slit our throats if we hadn’t run off,” Oscar said, defensively. “The point is, there are two unsavory men on that road. You should move them along before the next people pass.”
The Carabinieri exchanged smirks. “Only a fool is on that road in the dark.”
Oscar bristled.
I grabbed his shoulder and pulled him away. “They can’t arrest the men anyway,” I said as we walked off. “They didn’t rob us.”
“In England, they’d be moved on, away from a main tourism center.”
“We are not in England.”
He gave a grudging laugh. “Indeed.”
By mutual, silent agreement, we decided to take the longer, more winding route through the village to the lake shore where the hotels were situated, rather than the steep shortcut where we could be easily trapped.
As soon as my heart stopped racing from fear and exertion, a loud crack followed by more explosions set it hammering against my ribs again. Fireworks burst in the sky overhead.
The light flashed across Oscar’s upturned face as he admired them. “The guidebook says a local man sets them off from a barge on the lake every Friday evening.”
The pop and crack lasted a few minutes before culminating in a series of rapid bursts until the show stopped altogether. The smell of burnt gunpowder drifted toward us on the breeze.
“Oscar, how did you know Miss Wheeler and Mr. Defoe would visit Monteoro at all? They didn’t know the book with the ink spell was once housed in the abbey. We purchased the Mackenzie book in Edinburgh which had the only reference to its location. What made you think they’d found out?”
“Miss Wheeler read the Mackenzie book after she stole it from you that night in Edinburgh,” he said. “She must have told Defoe.”
“She said she wasn’t going to tell him she’d had the book in her possession. I believe her.”
“As do I. But she could have told him she snuck into your room and read the relevant passage about the location of the ink spell book then and there. She didn’t have to admit she took it. It’s just my guess, but I’d wager it’s a correct one.”
“A guess? So she never admitted to you that she read the Mackenzie book while she had it?”
“When would she have admitted that? We haven’t corresponded this past year. Every conversation I’ve had with her so far, I’ve had in your presence in Edinburgh. I merely presumed she’d read it because that’s what I would have done if I were in her shoes.”
That explained one mystery. Now to the other. “It was fortunate their private charter boat broke down on the lake so we could arrive ahead of them. I suppose they got here too late to make a safe journey up to the abbey in daylight.”
Oscar’s only answer was to clap me on the shoulder. “We deserve a hearty Italian meal and a local vino for dinner. It’s been a long day.”
“It has. That’s why I’ll have a tray delivered to my room. I want an early night.”
Oscar lowered his hand to his side. “You’re still cross with me.”
“I’m tired, Oscar. That’s all. I’ll see you at breakfast.”
We didn’t speak until we parted ways outside our rooms, positioned next to each other on the third floor of the hotel.
Even then, it was merely to say goodnight.
By the time I climbed into bed, weary from the day’s travel and exertions, my anger finally dissipated.
I didn’t want to be cross with Oscar any longer.
If I were infatuated with someone, I’d probably go out of my way to see them again, too. Tomorrow, I’d be kinder to him.
The day promised to be another hot one. After a good night’s rest, I rose early and decided to take a walk along the promenade before breakfast. The lake was even prettier than yesterday beneath the cloudless sky.
The hills reflected in the glassy surface, broken only by the beak of a bird hunting its aquatic prey.
The first ferry from Como hadn’t yet arrived, but small charter boats were already taking passengers out on private tours or fishing trips.
I stepped aside to let four Englishmen hurry past, straw boaters clutched in their hands.
The crew of their rowboat seemed unconcerned by their tardiness, however.
One sat in the fore section, puffing on his pipe, while the other appeared to be asleep.
Beyond their boat was another, the crewman in deep conversation with— Oscar! What was he doing there?
I started toward him only to stop. He was handing the crewman something.
I couldn’t see what, but I had a strong suspicion it was money.
I also suspected it was the same boat Mr. Defoe and Miss Wheeler took the day before from Como.
The same boat that had broken down on its voyage.
Oscar had paid the man to ensure it broke down to delay their arrival in Monteoro.
I’d suspected as much but this confirmed it.
What would Miss Wheeler think of that?
I walked swiftly away and returned to the hotel where I stopped at the check-in desk to ask the clerk if he knew Signore Scala from Villa Corzoni.
“Me? No, Signore Professore. Pietro Scala is too important to know me.”
“Perhaps I should have been clearer,” I said. “Do you know of him? As in, what can you tell me about him?”
“Ah. I understand. You want information. I could tell you some things, like he is from a rich Milano family. They made a lot of money making stairs.”
“Stairs? Oh, Scala means stairs in Italian, doesn’t it?”
“Si. Stairs. Scala. An old name for an old family business.”
“Wooden stairs?”
“Si.”
Most likely they were magician-made if the family’s business had centered around that particular industry for centuries. Wood magic, sometimes called carpentry magic, was one of the more common magics. “Anything else you can tell me?”
“The father of Pietro Scala bought Villa Corzoni from a duke. That was many years ago, when Pietro was just a boy.” He glanced around and, seeing that we were alone in the foyer, leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “That is what everyone knows. You can find it in your guidebooks.”
I thanked him and went to walk off, only to double back. “Do you mean to say there is information not in the guidebooks?”
The clerk smiled and waited.
It took me a moment to realize what he was waiting for. I fished out two silver lire coins from my pocket, not quite sure how much one should pay for information in Italy.
Apparently it was enough. The clerk pocketed them and leaned forward again. “After Pietro Scala inherited the villa and business from his father, he spent money like it was water.”
“You mean like there is an endless supply of it, not water in a desert which is scarce.”
The clerk laughed lightly and waved in the direction of the lake outside. “Si. Endless water. Then he stopped spending money.” He made a horizontal chopping motion with his hand. “Maybe it ran out. Some in Monteoro think the business in Milan is failing.”
“I see. Thank you.” I went to walk off, but he caught my forearm.
“Some think the business is failing because of the anarchists. There have been many strikes. Signore Scala has spoken out against them often, and so they target him more.”
It wouldn’t be the only Milanese factory suffering from strikes and unrest stirred up by the anarchists. How much could the factory owners take before they gave in to the demands of their workers?
I thanked the clerk and turned away from the desk, just as Oscar strolled in. He smiled as he joined me.
“Pleasant morning for a walk,” he said. “You should stretch your legs in the fresh air, Gavin. I feel invigorated.”
“A morning walk,” I said flatly. “Is that what you were doing?”
His smile slipped, but he didn’t confess.
I changed the topic and indicated the check-in desk. “I’ve been working, as it happens. I’ve gathered some useful information about Signore Pietro Scala.”
“Really? Good for you.”
“You don’t need to sound so surprised, Oscar. I’m quite capable of taking the initiative without you by my side.”
He hesitated then smiled. “I never doubted it.”
I pushed my glasses up my nose and regarded him.
He kept smiling. “So did you learn something that will give us leverage to buy the book off him?”
“Books, plural. I want all of the ones received from the abbey.”
His smiled widened. “All right. So what did you learn?”
“You!” came the booming American voice from the doorway that led through to the dining room where breakfast was being served. “What are you two doing here now?”
My heart thudded as Mr. Defoe strode toward us, his face thunderous. He may not be a particularly large man, but he had a presence about him that commanded attention. He expected people to answer him and I suspected they usually complied.
Miss Wheeler followed behind, not meekly like the assistant she was, but with her head held high and her steps confident.
Unlike her employer, her surprise at seeing us in the same Italian village lasted a mere moment before it was replaced with a rueful smile and shake of her head.
Her quick mind had already put the pieces together and realized they’d been outplayed.
She was neither bemused nor upset by it if her continued smile was any indication.
Defoe, however, had not worked it out. “This can’t be a coincidence,” he barked in his brassy American accent. “Barratt, isn’t it? I remember you from Edinburgh. You poisoned Kinloch against me so he’d sell you the Mackenzie book.”
Oscar stilled. “That’s not what happened, Defoe, and you know it.”
The two men squared up to one another. Although Oscar was superior in size, Mr. Defoe’s snake-like quality couldn’t be trusted. If it came to spitting venom at each other, I’d place a wager on Defoe. Oscar was a gentleman. Defoe was not.
“Let’s discuss this like civilized men,” I said.
Mr. Defoe ignored me. It was as if I weren’t even there.
“Tell me why you just happen to be in Monteoro at the same time as—” He cut himself off and spun around.
Eyes wide, he jabbed a finger in Miss Wheeler’s direction.
“This must be your doing, Adele. How else would they know when we were coming? How dare you betray me after everything I’ve done for you! ”