“We’ll no doubt see him soon enough.”
They crossed the lawn and approached the main entrance of the massive keep. It opened with a creak of iron. And there stood Fosco, dressed in an elegant dove-gray suit, longish hair brushed back, his smooth white face creased with a smile. As always, he was wearing kid gloves.
“My dear Pendergast, welcome to my humble abode. And Sergeant D’Agosta, as well? Nice of you to join our little party.”
He held out his hand. Pendergast ignored it.
The count let the hand drop, his smile unaffected. “A pity. I had hoped we could conduct our business with courtesy, like gentlemen.”
“Is there a gentleman here? I should like to meet him.”
Fosco clucked disapprovingly. “Is this a way to treat a man in his own home?”
“Is it any way to treat a man, burning him to death in his own home?”
A look of distaste crossed Fosco’s face. “So anxious to get to the business at hand, are we? But there will be time, there will be time. Do come in.”
The count stood aside, and they walked through a long archway into the castle’s great hall. It was quite unlike what D’Agosta had expected. A graceful loggia ran along three sides, with columns and Roman arches.
“Note the Della Robbia tondi,” said Fosco, gesturing toward some painted terra-cotta decorations set into the walls above the arches. “But you must be tired after the drive down. I will take you to your quarters, where you can refresh yourselves.”
“Our rooms?” Pendergast asked. “Are we spending the night?”
“Naturally.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be necessary, or even possible.”
“But I must insist.” The count turned and seized an iron ring on the open castle door, drawing it shut with a boom. With a dramatic flourish, he removed a giant key from his pocket and locked it. Then he opened a small wooden box mounted on the nearby wall. Inside, D’Agosta saw a high-tech keypad, wildly out of place amidst the ancient masonry. The count punched a long sequence of numbers into the keypad. In response, there was a clank, and a massive iron bar shot down from above, sliding into a heavy iron bracket and barring the door.
“Now we are safe from unauthorized invasion,” said Fosco. “Or, for that matter, unauthorized departure.”
Pendergast made no answer. The count turned and, moving in his peculiar light-footed way, led them through the hall and into a long, cold stone gallery. Portraits, almost black with age, lined both walls, along with mounted sets of rusted armor, spears, lances, pikes, maces, and other medieval weaponry.
“The armor is of no value, eighteenth-century reproductions. The portraits are of my ancestors, of course. Age has obscured them, fortunately—the counts of Fosco are not a pretty race. We have owned the estate since the twelfth century, when my distinguished ancestor Giovan de Ardaz wrested it from a Longobardic knight. The family bestowed the title ‘cavaliere’ on itself and took as its coat of arms a dragon rampant, bar sinister. During the time of the grand dukes, we were made counts of the Holy Roman Empire by the electress palatine herself. We have always led a quiet existence here, tending our vines and olive groves, neither meddling in politics nor aspiring to office. We Florentines have a saying: The nail that sticks out gets hammered back in. The House of Fosco did not stick out, and as a result, we never felt the blow of the hammer during many, many shifts of political fortune.”
“And yet you, Count, have managed to stick yourself out quite a bit these past few months,” Pendergast replied.
“Alas, and much against my will. It was only to recover what was rightfully ours to begin with. But we shall talk more of this at dinner.”
They passed out of the gallery and through a beautiful drawing room with leaded-glass windows and tapestried walls. Fosco gestured toward some large landscape paintings. “Hobbema and van Ruisdael.”
The drawing room was followed by a long series of graciously appointed, light-filled chambers, until quite suddenly the character of the rooms changed abruptly. “We are now entering the original, Longobardic part of the castle,” Fosco said. “Dating back to the ninth century.”
Here the rooms were small and almost windowless, the only light admitted by arrow ports and tiny, square openings high on the walls. The walls were calcined, the rooms bare.
“I have no use for these dreary old rooms,” said the count as they passed through. “They are always damp and cold. There are, however, several levels of cellars, tunnels, and subbasements below, most useful for making wine, balsamico, and prosciutto di cinghiale. We hunt our own boar here on the estate, you know, and it is justly famous. The lowest of those tunnels were cut into the rock by the Etruscans, three thousand years ago.”