Perpetual Arch-Master of the Rosicrucian Masons of Mesopotamia,
Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society, etc., etc.,
desires the pleasure of your company
at his family seat,
Castel Fosco,
Sunday, November 4
Castel Fosco
Greve in Chianti
Firenze
Pendergast looked sharply at D’Agosta and then back at Lady Maskelene. “This man is no friend. He’s extremely dangerous.”
“What? That fat, charming old count?” She laughed, but the laughter died when she saw the expression on his face.
“He’s the one who has the violin.”
She stared. “It would be his, anyway—wouldn’t it? I mean, if it were found.”
“He brutally murdered at least four people to get it.”
“Oh, my God—”
“Don’t say anything to anyone about this. You’ll be safe here, on Capraia. He would have killed you already if he thought it was necessary.”
She stared back. “You’re frightening me.”
“Yes, and I’m sorry, but sometimes it’s good to be afraid. It will be over in two or three days. Please be careful, Viola. Just stay here and do nothing until I return with the violin.”
For a moment, she did not reply. Then she stirred. “You must go. You’ll miss the ferry.”
Pendergast took her hand. They stood quite still, looking at each other, saying nothing. Then Pendergast turned and quickly walked through the gate and down the trail.
D’Agosta leaned against the fantail of the ferry, watching the island dissolve on the horizon in much the same way it had appeared: with a sense of expectancy, of a fresh beginning. Pendergast stood beside him. Since they had left the small house on the bluff, the agent hadn’t said a word. He stared back over the churning wake, apparently lost in thought.
“Fosco knew that you knew,” said D’Agosta. “That’s what saved her.”
“Yes.”
“This whole thing. It was just an elaborate plot to get the violin, wasn’t it?”
Pendergast nodded.
“I knew from the beginning that fat bastard had something to do with it.”
Pendergast didn’t respond. His gaze was far away.
“Are you all right?” D’Agosta finally risked asking.
Pendergast started, looked over. “Quite all right, thanks.”
The island had finally disappeared. As if on cue, the low outline of the Tuscan mainland began to materialize on the eastern horizon.
“What now?”
“I accept Fosco’s invitation. It’s one thing to know, quite another to have proof. If we want to get Fosco, we have to get whatever machine he used to commit these murders.”
“So why did Fosco give you an invitation?”
“He wants to kill me.”
“Great. And you plan on accepting?”
Pendergast turned away and gazed back out to sea, his eyes almost white in the brilliant light. “Fosco knows I’ll accept, because it’s the only chance to gather the evidence we need to put him behind bars. If we don’t do it now, he will be back to haunt us next month, perhaps, or a year from now, or ten years . . .” He paused. “And what’s more, he’ll always be a danger to Viola—Lady Maskelene—for what she knows.”
“I get it.”
But Pendergast was still looking out to sea. When he spoke again, his voice was very low. “It ends tomorrow, in the Castel Fosco.”
{ 73 }
Bryce Harriman sat at the old table, taking notes in the harsh light of a Coleman lantern, the Reverend Buck across from him. It was almost midnight, but he wasn’t the least bit sleepy. The day before, he had filed a crackerjack story, about the failed attempt to arrest Buck. He had pieced it together from a half dozen witnesses, and it was juicy: the swaggering police captain coming in to arrest Buck, how he’d panicked and run, leaving it to the other captain—a woman—to straighten things out. Great copy. In the long run, it might turn out to be more than just great copy: he’d begun putting out feelers at the Times, and they seemed receptive to a job interview. This new article would be gravy. And thanks to Buck, he was now the only journalist allowed in the tent city. With this second piece appearing hot on the heels of the first, he was going to score a double whammy. And he would be there tomorrow, too, just in case there was a showdown with New York’s finest.