After a chilly walk home to the bookshop, I was glad to see lights on. I’d sit with whoever was up for a while and unwind, I decided. Maybe make a sandwich, since I hadn’t had dinner.
In the kitchen, Aunt Violet was in her armchair, knitting away on something soft and moss green. The two cats lay curled near the AGA, which released comforting warmth. “Hello, dear. How was your night out?”
As I unwound my scarf and unbuttoned my coat, I wondered where to begin. “Do you have a while? A lot’s been going on.” While I’d kept my aunt and mother updated, we hadn’t had an opportunity to really hash things out.
“All the time you need.” Aunt Violet paused her knitting to push up her eyeglasses. “I understand Sir Jon is now involved.” She smiled. “That rascal is always up to his neck in something.”
I turned the flame on under the kettle. “He sure is. Sean Ryan too.”
Mum appeared in the doorway, dressed in her robe and slippers. “I thought I heard voices.”
“Tell the truth, Mum,” I joked. “It was Sean Ryan’s name that lured you.”
“Oh, go on with you.” Mum bustled over to the cupboard and pulled out a tin. “Shortbread?” She opened the tin and held it out to me.
I bit into the crumbly, buttery biscuit. “Who wants cocoa?”
Soon we all held mugs, the shortbread tin going around a couple of times. I took Aunt Violet and Mum through the events of the evening, then recapped all that had happened so far, including the murder, the hunting accident in Scotland, and the theft of The Fatal Folio.
“My goodness, that’s a lot to happen in a few days,” Aunt Violet said, blue eyes round behind her glasses. “Well, except for the hunting accident, of course. I think it’s related, though, don’t you?”
“It’s a strong possibility.” Picking up my phone, I brought up the picture of Reginald Dubold’s business card. “Do you know this dealer? Thad Devine had his card.”
“He’s a bit dodgy.” Aunt Violet’s expression went sour. “I was almost stung once, after your uncle Tom died. He handled many of our more valuable sales. Reginald tried to sell me something with a dubious provenance. Thankfully Sir Jon, who was my mentor at the time, stopped me from making a serious mistake.”
“So he’s on Sir Jon’s radar, then.” I wondered if Reginald would be a stop on the investigation into the stolen manuscript. “I wonder why Thad had his card. There are certainly plenty of reputable bookdealers in Cambridge, including us.”
“He talks a good game,” Aunt Violet said. “Besides, Thad’s transaction might have totally been aboveboard. Not everything Reginald does is crooked. He’d be in jail.”
Despite the shortbread, my belly was really rumbling now. I got up and made a ham-and-cheese sandwich on homemade bread with mayonnaise and mustard, pickles on the side.
“How’s the cataloguing job going?” Aunt Violet asked.
“Really well,” I said between bites. “Now that I’ve gotten started. Oh, by the way, here’s something else new and exciting. Selwyn Scott wrote another book.” I told them how we’d found the reference to Among the Ruins and that Kieran and I were going to search for it. I’d notified him by text and he was very excited.
“Wouldn’t that be a find,” Mum said, her eyes glowing. “I can’t wait to read it.”
“Me either.” I hoped that we would have the opportunity. “Speaking of Selwyn Scott, would you like me to read you a bedtime story?”
They both wanted to listen, so, after running upstairs to retrieve the book and catching them up on the story so far, I began.
The Fatal Folio, cont.
Traveling through the mountains above Turin soon proved to be the most arduous part of our journey to buy The Ramblings of a Monk. The road was narrow, rocky, and in some places, almost nonexistent. On one side precipitous slopes rose, on the other, a sheer drop to the valley below.
In contrast, a carriage ride across France into Italy seemed a dream of comfort despite the long days and uncomfortable nights. We had only one day in Paris to my disappointment, and I extracted a promise from Mr. Coates that we would linger there on the return trip. I encouraged his greed by suggesting that we might purchase other books from the nobleman’s library and sell them in Paris to recoup the expense of our travels.
As one might guess, our forced closeness as traveling companions had not improved my impression of Mr. Coates. He was rude and demanding, treating innkeepers, carriage drivers, and serving maids and lads with utter disdain, as if he were the Earl of Mercia already. Though it must be noted, in my experience those of truly noble demeanor are considerate to all. I was forced to tip from my own meager resources to help mitigate his deplorable behavior. He was not savvy enough to realize that we are dependent upon these so-called inferiors, our very lives held in their hands.
Now, for instance, as the horses strained to pull our carriage over the pass. Only the skill of the driver kept us steady and safe on this treacherous route.
Finally we achieved the height of land and the driver paused. “There is your destination,” he said, pointing his whip. “Malvagio. We will reach the village before dark.”
Malvagio was merely a cluster of houses with one church tower and a larger villa on a rise outside the town. Tumbled ruins near the villa must be that of the monastery once home to the cloistered religious who had penned The Ramblings of a Monk. We had seen many such towns in our travels. Although remote and out of the mainstream of human commerce, they were picturesque in their own way.
Perhaps it was only my fancy, suffering as I was from exhaustion and frayed nerves, but a deep foreboding struck me at the sight of our destination. There was nothing obvious to arouse such uneasiness. As I said, Malvagio was exactly like dozens of other small Italian villages.
Why then, as the driver clucked at the horses and the carriage began to descend, was I blanketed with an overwhelming sense of dread? It was as though something dark and monstrous lurked behind the sunshine and blue skies, the red-tiled roofs set among green foothills.
By the time we rolled into the center of the village, where a fountain burbled and old men sat and gossiped, I had convinced myself that my imagination was overwrought. Here, in the square, all appeared docile and domestic, with women carrying baskets of produce and bread or hanging out laundry. Children shouted and ran, their high-pitched voices echoing among the narrow streets.
The coach rumbled to a stop in front of an inn. Mr. Coates hoped the Duke would offer us rooms but, hating to presume, we had booked here, in this pleasant-looking building with windows that opened to the square.
The coachman unloaded our luggage as a tall, ungainly man came out to assist us. He picked up our bags under both arms and carried them off without a word.
“I hope we see them again,” Coates jested. He turned to the coachman. “Thank you for your service. Can we stand you a meal and a night’s lodging?” Coates spoke a rough sort of Italian, as did I. Enough to get along.
The man shook his head. “I’d better be off,” he said, peering up at the sky. “Dark will soon be upon us and I want to get over the pass.” With a tip of his hat and a bow, he was up in the seat again and soon the horses were clattering away over the cobblestones. There goes our link to the wider world, I couldn’t help but think.
Weary, we trudged up the hotel steps and entered the lobby. Here a squint-eyed gentleman sat behind a large reception desk. “Good afternoon. Signore Coates and Signore … Marlboro?”
“That’s us,” Mr. Coates said. He bellied up to the desk and got us signed in. After the business was concluded, he said, “We’d like to freshen up and then pay the Duke a visit. How do you recommend we travel to the villa?”
The innkeeper almost dropped his pen. “The Duke? What business do you have with him?”
Mr. Coates scowled. “That is of no concern to you, my good sir.” He tapped on the counter. “Please do answer my question.”
The man’s eyes darted back and forth. “You must approach on foot,” he finally said. “You won’t find a carriage or a cart to take you. Not from this village.”
My companion’s mouth dropped open and I must confess that I was equally flabbergasted by the innkeeper’s assertion. What reason could the villagers possibly have for refusing transport to the villa? Surely, as a feudal lord of sorts, the Duke would expect the villagers to take care of his visitors.
“It wasn’t always that way,” the innkeeper said as though guessing my thoughts. His eyes shifted about again. “Only of late, after recent events.”
“This is an odd turn of affairs,” Mr. Coates said, turning to me. “Perhaps we can hire horses.” He addressed the innkeeper again. “There is a stable with horses for hire?”
The man nodded. “There is. I will direct you when you are ready to go.”
Despite being weary and travel-stained, we were soon upon our way again after a quick washing up and change of attire. The stable was easily found, and two able steeds were supplied. Mr. Coates, who had a more subtle mind than I gave him credit for, told the livery that we were taking a ride in the countryside. There was no mention of the villa or our purpose there.
“It’s odd, is it not,” I said as the horses ambled up the dusty road into the countryside, “for the villagers to have such an aversion to their better?”
Mr. Coates shrugged. “Perhaps he is a harsh master. That’s not of any importance to us. I plan to purchase the book and be on our way tomorrow. There is no point in lingering.” After a moment, he amended that. “Unless he does have other interesting volumes to peruse, as you suggested.”
“We won’t know until we ask.” My heart lifted at the thought that the Duke might have taken ownership of additional gems from the monastery library. Such religious orders often housed marvelous collections, including ancient illustrated manuscripts and rare and arcane tomes. In light of this possibility, I had come prepared to make purchases. Such opportunities did not come along very often.
The road wound up the mountainside, providing vistas of the valley and the peaks beyond. Flowering shrubs and scented herbs lined our way, the fragrances familiar but unidentifiable to my untrained senses.
Mr. Coates appeared blind to the beauty surrounding us, keeping his gaze fixed on the road ahead and urging his mount along whenever the poor beast faltered.
“What a place,” he said, scoffing. “Talk about primitive.” He gestured toward the village huddled below. “Did you see how they all stared at us?” He puffed out his chest. “They aren’t used to people of refinement, that much is obvious.”
I held my tongue, not wanting to admit that I found the place charming if rustic. The people were kind although reserved, and I was eager to see if Italian cuisine lived up to its reputation. There was much to be said for a simple meal beautifully prepared.
The road finally leveled out, and we approached the villa through an allée of pointed cypress trees. Walls surrounded the grounds with a tall ironwork gate providing access. This stood open.
Inside the gate, we dismounted, staring up at the elegant house. Several stories high, it had arched windows, a tower at one end, and a set of hobnailed double doors. The walls were the pale plaster so common in this land and the roof was tiled in red.
Our footsteps crunched as we crossed a gravel forecourt. Nothing else stirred, the only sound the whisper of a fountain nearby.
Neither Coates nor I spoke as we ascended the broad, shallow steps to the front door. A bell rope hung to one side and he pulled hard. The bell sounded faintly.
Again he tugged on the rope, making the bell peal.
Both of us were becoming perturbed at this lack of response when finally the door creaked open. A young woman, her long black hair unbound, dressed in a white flowing gown, stood in the doorway. “Can I help you?” she asked in the local dialect. In contrast to the inelegant tongue, something about her spoke of fine breeding. This was no servant.
Mr. Coates took off his hat and bowed low. “We are here to see the Duke. We have an appointment. Mr. Coates and Mr. Marlboro.”
She put a hand to her mouth, her gleaming eyes wide. “I am so sorry to have to tell you this. The Duke—my father—is dead.”