“And here I thought you were fast asleep in your hotel suite.”
“Sleep is an unfortunate biological requirement that both wastes time and leaves one vulnerable. At any rate, I uncovered hints of the existence of the Comitatus Decimus, the Company of Ten. It was a group of assassins formed during the most contentious years of the thirteenth century, long before the Medici came to power. One of the founders of the order was a French baron named Hugo d’Aquilanges, who brought to Florence some peculiar manuscripts full of the dark arts. Using these manuscripts, the group conjured up the devil—or so they believed—to aid in their midnight assassinations. They swore blood secrecy to each other, and any violation was punishable by immediate death. The cavaliere Mantun de Ardaz da Fosco was another of the founders; he passed membership with the title to his son and so forth, down to our Fosco. Their line, apparently, was also the keeper of the library of the Comitatus. It was these ancient documents Fosco used in conjuring up the devil for Bullard and the rest on All Hallows’ Eve. Whether he planned to use those documents from the beginning, I can’t be sure. But he would have learned Beckmann could read Italian and that Grove, even as a student, was knowledgeable about old manuscripts. Fosco couldn’t pass off any old manuscript—it had to be the real thing. I believe that he simply could not resist the fun. Of course, he didn’t realize at the time what it meant—or what penalties his breach of secrecy would incur. You see, members aren’t inducted into the order until they reach the age of thirty.”
“But you still haven’t explained how you knew Fosco belonged.”
“The research indicated that when the hereditary member is inducted into the society, he is marked with a black spot—a tattoo, really—using a bottle of ashes from the corpse of Mantun de Ardaz, who was drawn, quartered, and burned in the Piazza della Signoria for heresy. This black spot is placed directly over the heart.”
“And when did you get a glimpse of that?”
“When I interviewed him at the Sherry Netherland. He wore an open-necked white shirt. Of course, at the time I didn’t understand its significance—it merely looked like a large mole.”
“But you remembered it.”
“A photographic memory can be quite useful.”
Abruptly, Pendergast motioned for D’Agosta to be silent. For about a minute they waited, motionless. Then D’Agosta heard footsteps, a soft knock.
“Come in,” Pendergast said.
The door opened and Fosco slipped through, followed by half a dozen men with guns. He bowed. “Good morning to you both. I trust you passed a decent night?”
D’Agosta did not reply.
“And how was your night, Count?” Pendergast asked.
“I always sleep like a baby, thank you.”
“Funny how most murderers do.”
Fosco turned to D’Agosta. “You, on the other hand, look a little peaked, Sergeant. I hope you haven’t caught cold.”
“You make me sick.”
“There’s no accounting for taste,” Fosco said with a smile. Then he glanced back at Pendergast. “As promised, I’ve considered your offer. And I have brought you my riposte.”
He reached inside his jacket and withdrew a smooth white envelope. He held it out to Pendergast, eyes twinkling.
D’Agosta was startled to see Pendergast go pale as he took the envelope.
“That’s right. The very letter you left with Prince Maffei. Unopened and unread. I believe the word here is check, Mr. Pendergast. Your move.”
“How did—?” D’Agosta began. Then he fell silent.
Fosco waved his hand. “Mr. Pendergast didn’t count on my brilliance. I told Prince Maffei that my castle had been burglarized and that I was concerned for the safety of the Comitatus’s most secret manuscript—which, as the librarian of the Comitatus, I of course had in my possession. I asked him if he would hold it himself for safekeeping until the burglars had been caught. Naturally he took me to his most secure repository, where I felt sure he would have placed your letter. I didn’t know, of course, what you had said to him about the letter, so I felt it was better not even to mention it. The old fool opened his vault to put in the manuscript, and there, amidst all his moldy old papers, was a fresh, crisp envelope! I knew it had to be yours. A quick sleight of hand and the letter was mine. When you fail to return, the prince Maffei will open his vault and find nothing, and no doubt begin to worry about the toll old age is taking on his feeble mind.” Fosco laughed silently, his capacious front shaking, holding out the envelope.