Chapter 20
Signore Scala knew exactly why we were there. He barely waited for pleasantries to be over before broaching the topic. “You did not give me the letter, so I cannot give you the address of the bookseller. That was our agreement.”
We hadn’t even been invited to sit, so we stood in the drawing room near the door like servants awaiting instruction. The actual servants were nowhere to be seen. That was one obstacle we didn’t have to worry about.
“But we helped you this morning,” Oscar said. “We restrained your brother, kept your nephew safe—”
“If you do not mind, I have some correspondence to attend to.” Signore Scala glanced pointedly at the escritoire where a small notebook was open on the desk. Neat handwriting covered the pages, but I couldn’t make out the words. Even so, I had a strong hunch that it was an address book.
If it was, it would make our task easier.
“Correspondence with the antique bookseller?” Oscar asked.
“My business with him has come to an end.” Signore Scala tried to be circumspect with his glance at the book on the escritoire, but I was waiting for a telltale sign and noticed it.
It was time for me to enact my part of the plan so Oscar could perform his. “We are sorry to lose the books, Signore Scala, but I hope we can remain friends.”
“Friends, Professor?”
I moved so that I was facing the escritoire. “As you know, I have a fascination with the history of magic. Can you tell me again about your family’s origins, and how they came to specialize in staircases.”
Signore Scala brightened. This was a topic he enjoyed discussing. He turned to face me fully, meaning his back was to the escritoire.
Beside me, Oscar removed his handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose.
With the handkerchief still pressed to his nose and mouth, he spoke his ink floating spell.
Not loudly, of course. He whispered it so quietly that I merely heard the hiss of the S’s.
Signore Scala didn’t hear a thing over the sound of his own voice.
Inky words rose off the book’s pages and floated around, becoming scrambled.
Oscar’s spell wrangled them back in order in the air until they formed their original pattern.
They were clearly names and addresses. Beside one name were the words, libraio antiquario.
I didn’t need an interpreter to know it translated to antique bookseller.
Signore Scala suddenly stopped and frowned at me. Oh lord. I hadn’t been listening to a word he said. How should I respond?
“Fascinating,” I said.
Signore Scala spun around. He must have seen me looking past him. He scanned the room, but nothing was amiss. Oscar had returned the words onto the pages without leaving a splash of ink as evidence of his efforts.
He lowered the handkerchief. “I’m feeling a little croaky in the throat. We should leave, Gavin. I wouldn’t want Signore Scala to catch anything from me.”
“Of course.” I put out a hand to Signore Scala, aware that I was smiling a little too happily yet unable to temper it. I was so relieved that this was over, and it hadn’t been too difficult.
“Goodbye,” Signore Scala said, shaking our hands. “It is a shame we could not do business together. If there is anything I can do for you in the village…a nice dinner, perhaps…do let me know.”
Oscar paused in the doorway. “Actually, there is. I saw a little steam boat moored at your dock. May we have someone take us to Como in it as soon as possible?”
“Of course. It will be at your disposal in an hour.”
We didn’t see Rocco as we walked back along the path to the gate. I wondered if he would follow through on his promise to speak to Brother Eduardo. There’d be no repercussions from me if he didn’t. I would be gone from Monteoro in an hour.
While my thoughts moved in that direction, Oscar’s went in another altogether. “There’s only one reason that book was open to that page. Scala was looking at the antique bookseller’s address not long ago. Perhaps he was looking at it because he was copying it down for someone.”
“Defoe.” I’d come to the same conclusion in the drawing room.
“It explains his smug look when he returned to the hotel earlier. If Scala’s steamboat is fast, we might beat Defoe and Miss Wheeler to Como, but we’ll still have to wait for the train to Milan then stay there overnight, as will they.
You don’t think they’re really going to Genoa tomorrow, do you? ”
“I do not. Defoe made a point of telling us they planned to travel to Genoa then on to New York, so naturally he mustn’t be doing anything of the sort. They’ll be heading to the same place as us. Rome.”
He looked entirely too pleased about it, considering it might mean a bidding war to buy the tattoo book from the antique bookseller.
A bidding war we couldn’t possibly hope to win against Defoe.
Then again, Oscar’s good mood had nothing to do with the book and everything to do with the prospect of seeing Miss Wheeler again.
While I looked forward to seeing her again, too, I worried more about the effect it would have on Oscar. One parting was sad enough. Another, mere days later, could shatter him.
Rome was nothing like Lake Como. The genteel serenity of the lake and the cozy languor of the villages felt like a world away.
Rome was hot, loud and lively, just as I expected Italy to be.
Shopkeepers vied with one another to be heard, neighbors argued at the tops of their voices, and other drivers and some bicyclists shouted at our coachman as they had to veer out of our way.
The fellow had taken Oscar’s directive to hurry to heart and encouraged his horse with a crack of the whip in the air.
I clutched my valise tightly to my chest as we rounded a sharp bend far too quickly. I released one hand to grab onto the strap to stop myself sliding into Oscar, seated beside me in the hansom. He grinned, apparently finding our speed exhilarating.
“Look, Gavin! I think that’s the Colosseum in the distance.
” He pointed to an ancient structure just visible above the roofs of other buildings.
“We’ll go for a proper tour of the sights tomorrow, after we have the book safely in our hands.
Do you fancy seeing St. Peter’s Basilica or have you had enough of religious institutions after the Abbazia di San Vittore? ”
“The buildings themselves are magnificent, and I have nothing against seeing St. Peter’s. There are also some catacombs, I believe. I wonder if they’re open to tourists. Oh look, an ancient wall.”
The crumbling structure rose jaggedly beside the road, looking quite out of place tucked between more modern buildings.
Rome was extraordinary. It was more chaotic than London, smellier and noisier, with seemingly no traffic etiquette at all, yet I was transfixed by it, and we’d only arrived a mere hour earlier.
We’d not even found ourselves a hotel yet.
We’d taken a cab straight from the station.
“Isn’t this place marvelous!” Oscar had to raise his voice to be heard over the rumble of our wheels on the cobblestones. Although they were worn smooth by centuries of use, many were loose and some were missing altogether, making it quite a rough, loud ride.
“Imagine working here for a while,” I said. “There must be so many interesting books in this city. So much history, and not just on the topic of magic.”
Oscar laughed.
“What’s so amusing?” I asked.
“Nothing. We’re slowing down. I think we’ve arrived.”
We paid the driver and alighted. We’d both held our valises on the journey and now carried them to the address we’d read at Signore Scala’s villa the day before. The sign painted above the door declared it was indeed the premises of Leonardo Benedetti, libraio antiquario.
“I do hope we beat Defoe,” I said. We’d not seen the American and his assistant on our journey. If they’d caught the same train from Milan as us, they’d have been in the first-class car, while we’d been in second. They certainly couldn’t have arrived in Rome before us.
When Oscar didn’t answer, I turned to look at him. He was peering into the shadows at the end of the narrow street, his brow creased. I pushed my glasses up my nose to see better, but I was quite sure there was no one there.
I entered the shop and drew in a deep breath, drawing the smell of old paper, leather and something altogether earthy into my lungs.
Like the abbey library, it was a warm, inviting place.
Unlike the abbey, the shop ceiling was low, the wooden beams mere inches above my head.
Even after removing his hat, Oscar had to duck to get through the door without bumping his head.
I thought the shop was empty at first, then a face peered around a stack of books on a desk near the back and greeted us in Italian. I responded and asked him if he spoke English.
“I do. I am Signore Benedetti, at your service.” He clasped gnarled fingers together on top of the desk and peered over his spectacles at us. He had an impressive array of wrinkles across his forehead and around his eyes, like a diagram of a maze.
“My name is Professor Nash, and this is Oscar Barratt. We’re book collectors from London, currently on a mission to stock a new library about magic.”
“Ah! You have come to the right place.” Signore Benedetti stood slowly, a hand to his lower back, and reached for a walking stick leaning against the wall.
He hobbled out from behind the desk and smiled.
At least, I suspected it was a smile, judging by the way the wrinkles folded.
His mouth was invisible, hidden beneath the wild, wiry gray hair of his beard and moustache.
“I recently acquired some books all on the subject of magic. Lovely books, very well kept, very old. They came from an abbey up north.”
Oscar and I exchanged glances. We smiled. “May we see them?” he asked.