Chapter 16
I found Brother Eduardo looking out of one of the large windows, perhaps waiting to see us cross the forecourt below.
Upon hearing the library door open, he spun around.
The sudden movement caused him pain. He sucked air between his teeth and reached for his lower back.
Changing his mind at the last moment, he pressed his hand to his side.
“You’re hurt?” I asked, going to him.
He lowered his hand. “It is nothing.”
“So you haven’t just been flagellating yourself with that switch?” I indicated the slim, supple branches tied together with leather in the corner of the library.
Brother Eduardo didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. He seemed to be caught somewhere between shame and horror. He didn’t utter a sound in denial or protest. His mind must have gone blank.
“I know why you punish yourself,” I said.
Brother Eduardo shook his head, but his cheeks betrayed him. They flushed scarlet. He looked down at the floor. I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to spell it out—this was not something men of my acquaintance discussed with one another—but I couldn’t let him suffer.
I drew in a fortifying breath and pressed on. “You do it because you have thoughts about other men, and your faith tells you those thoughts are wrong, and that you are deficient in moral character for having them.”
Brother Eduardo didn’t move. He stood utterly still with his head bowed.
“I want you to know that you’re not depraved or deficient. You simply love differently. What you feel is not a sin. It’s natural for you.”
“It is a sin.” He said it so softly I barely heard him.
I took a step closer but maintained a respectable distance between us. “How can the way a man is born be a sin? If your faith tells you that God’s creations are beautiful and He created you this way, does that not mean you are beautiful?”
Brother Eduardo’s hand started to shake, then he looked up and I saw his chin shuddering, too. A tear slipped from one eye down his flushed cheek. “You understand.”
“In a way, but not the way you think.”
His brow creased. “But you have these thoughts, too?”
“No. But I suspect more men than you realize do have them.”
“Signore Scala,” he said.
“And his lover. Perhaps you should find a way to confide in them without the abbot knowing. Perhaps they can help you come to terms with your thoughts.” I indicated the switch darkened with blood.
“You must do something other than that. Flogging the flesh from your back is not working, is it? It doesn’t stop the thoughts. ”
Brother Eduardo shook his head. “The abbot will find out if I speak to Signore Scala.”
I smiled, very aware that it was a rather wicked smile yet unable to curb it. “Then you should blackmail him. Tell him you’ll inform the bishop he gave some valuable abbey books to his own brother to then sell for a small fortune which went into the coffers of the family business.”
“His brother?”
“Signore Scala.” At Brother Eduardo’s gasp, I added, “Don’t worry if Scala finds out you confided in the bishop. I still believe he’ll be a friend to you. In fact, I suspect he’d be quite happy to see the abbot in trouble with his superiors.”
I couldn’t tell whether Brother Eduardo would follow through and inform the bishop.
Indeed, I couldn’t tell if he would confide his thoughts to Signore Scala and seek advice and comfort in the knowledge he was not alone.
I suspected he’d go on just as he always had, thinking himself an abomination because that’s what had been drummed into him for years.
But in that moment, he looked almost euphoric at the prospect of exorcising the demons from his mind.
And that made me feel very satisfied indeed.
As with the walk out of Pecco, Oscar and Miss Wheeler were quite talkative on the walk back to Monteoro from the abbey.
This time, it was mostly about their theories surrounding the murder, and whether it had anything to do with the missing Scala family wood spell.
I had my own thoughts about the spell and wood magic, but I kept them to myself.
They’d not fully formed and I didn’t want to sound silly for putting them forward.
I also didn’t want to intrude. While they didn’t exclude or ignore me, they were clearly more interested in each other than in me.
They were quite close, Miss Wheeler’s parasol partially covering Oscar, too.
Sometimes their arms touched and once, he took her hand to assist her around a large muddy puddle.
He held onto her hand for longer than was necessary, and she didn’t attempt to remove it.
After passing the fork in the road where the faded sign pointed to Pecco, we took the busier route to Monteoro.
A group of intrepid English tourists had decided to go for a walk up to the abbey, despite being the hottest part of the day.
They stopped us when we reached the edge of the village to ask if it was worth it.
Oscar informed them that if they wanted to see a working Medieval abbey then they should continue.
Satisfied, they touched the brims of their hats in thanks and did just that.
Miss Wheeler had become distracted while we talked to the tourists by two young local women. Their maids’ uniforms bore the emblem of our hotel, but I didn’t think that was what caught Miss Wheeler’s attention.
She fell into conversation with them. Although I couldn’t catch the gist of the discussion, I did understand a few words. Words that had me intrigued, as they must have intrigued Miss Wheeler when she first heard them.
She thanked the maids who went on their way, but not before fluttering their lashes in Oscar’s direction.
“What was that about?” he asked Miss Wheeler as she watched them retreat.
She had an odd look on her face, as if she’d been presented with a complex puzzle she was attempting to solve. “I believe I know why Giovanni Colombo was murdered, and why he and his wife faked their son’s death. And it’s thanks to you, Mr. Barratt, that it all makes sense now.”
“Me? Well, I’m glad I could help. Which of my theories do you think is correct?”
“Don’t look too smug. It wasn’t a theory you came up with at all. You inadvertently helped me by telling me about some of the situations Matt and India Glass found themselves in.”
“Which one?”
“The one with the firework magician.”
Fireworks!
Oscar blinked. “What do fireworks have to do with this?”
Oh my! It was starting to make sense to me, too. “You overheard those maids use some words the Carabinieri said to Signora Colombo after they found her husband’s body,” I said. “Fires and artifice. It didn’t make sense at the time, but now you know those words together in Italian mean fireworks.”
Miss Wheeler nodded. “Fuochi d'artificio translates to fireworks. Artificial fires. I can’t believe I didn’t realize it at the time.”
“None of us did,” Oscar said, watching the two maids head into one of the narrow lanes. “But why do you think fireworks are related to the murder? What exactly did those maids say?”
“They were discussing the fireworks display that is put on in the village every week, and how it’s sad they won’t happen anymore after the Pecco man died.
They could only have been talking about Colombo, so I asked them to explain.
Apparently, the fireworks started two years ago and have been going off every week since.
It’s become tradition and everyone looks forward to it, tourists and locals alike.
But the Pecco man whose hobby it was to set off the fireworks died. ”
“The maids said he was a firework magician?” Oscar asked.
“Magic wasn’t mentioned. But what if he was?
You told me the Glasses met a firework magician who used magic to detonate bombs from a distance, thereby avoiding danger by being too close at the time of the explosion.
What if that’s why De Angelis, an anarchist, was sniffing around the boatshed?
He was courting Colombo, trying to get him to work for them. ”
“Courting or coercing?” Oscar muttered.
I followed that thread through to its inevitable conclusion. “He refused and they killed him. And now they want his son, who has inherited his father’s firework magic. Anticipating he was in danger, even before his father died, his parents faked his death. It was the best way to ensure his safety.”
We continued through the piazza in silence, down one of the steep alleys cutting through the village.
I didn’t take in much of our surroundings and found myself jostled by tourists on more than one occasion.
I couldn’t help but worry about the terrible predicament Signora Colombo and her son had found themselves in, through no fault of their own.
It was no wonder she planned to leave Pecco in secret tonight, under the cover of darkness.
When the alley opened up to the main street running parallel to the lakeshore, Miss Wheeler checked her watch.
“I have time before Mr. Defoe is scheduled to return from his outing. Shall we buy gelatos to cool down?” She tucked the watch back into her waistcoat pocket and nodded at the seller’s cart with the green and cream striped awning.
“I’ll pay,” Oscar said. “Which flavor would you like?”
“I’ll pay,” she countered. “Defoe compensates me for expenses, and this is an important expense.”
“Absolutely not. A lady in my company does not pay for ice cream.”
“How many times have I told you, I’m not a lady, Mr. Barratt.”
“You most certainly are.” Oscar appealed to me. “Help me here, Gavin. Convince Miss Wheeler that I’m paying.”
“A gentleman always pays,” I said to her. “Besides, I want to ask you something in private.”
Oscar narrowed his gaze and looked as though he was about to interject, but I shot him a frosty glare and he asked Miss Wheeler again what flavor she wanted.
Once he was out of earshot, I turned to her. She was already waiting for me to speak, her attention on me completely as she leaned on the handle of her closed parasol, the other end pressing firmly between the paving stones.