D’Agosta glanced through one doorway, backtracked, looked through another. It had been less than twenty-four hours; he couldn’t have forgotten. Could he? He advanced, touched the stucco, but it was old, crumbling, anything but fresh.
“The sergeant said the apartment where he was held prisoner was in the tower itself,” the colonnello told Fosco.
The count cast a puzzled gaze on the colonnello, turned to D’Agosta. “There is only one apartment in the tower, but it is not this way.”
“Take us to it.”
The count led them quickly through a series of passages and low, dark stone rooms, barren of furnishings.
“This is the oldest part of the castle,” Fosco said. “Dating back to the ninth century. It’s rather cold and depressing. There are no modern amenities like electricity or plumbing. I never come here myself.”
Within a minute, they had reached the heavy iron door of the keep. Fosco opened it with difficulty, the lock rusty. The door creaked open, Fosco brushing away cobwebs. He led the way up the staircase beyond, the echo of feet filling the stony spaces. Reaching the landing, D’Agosta paused before the door of their apartment. It was ajar.
“Is this it?” Esposito asked.
D’Agosta nodded.
Esposito beckoned to his men, who came forward, opened the door, and stepped inside. Esposito followed, D’Agosta on his heels.
The snug apartment where he’d spent the night before last was gone. The rugs, bookshelves, and furniture were nowhere to be seen. Lights, plumbing fixtures—everything that had been retrofitted into the space was now gone. Instead, he gazed into a chill, dark vault filled with decaying lumber, broken stone carvings, moldering stacks of heavy draperies. A massive iron chandelier, twisted and rusting, lay on the floor. Everything was coated in a thick mantle of dust. It looked like a storage area for the cast-off detritus of past centuries.
“Sergeant—are you sure this is the room?”
D’Agosta’s astonishment gave way to puzzlement, then anger. “Yes, but it wasn’t like this. It wasn’t like this at all. There were bedrooms, a bathroom—”
The room fell silent.
So that’s the game, D’Agosta thought. “The count has used the twelve hours it took to get the warrant to fix things. To disguise everything.”
Esposito ran his finger over the dust on an old, wormy table, rubbed it between thumb and finger, then looked at D’Agosta rather intently. He turned to the count. “Are there any other apartments in the tower?”
“As you can see, this occupies the entire upper floor.”
Esposito looked back at D’Agosta. “All right. What next?”
“We went down to dinner.” D’Agosta was careful to keep his voice calm. “In the main dining room. Fosco said we’d never leave the castle alive. There was an exchange of gunfire. I killed his manservant.”
The count’s eyebrows shot up again. “Pinketts?”
Within five minutes, they were stepping into the cheery dining salotto. But it was as D’Agosta had begun to fear: there were no bloodstains, no sign of any struggle. The remains of a single breakfast lay on the table.
“You’ll excuse me, I hope,” Fosco said, gesturing toward the half-eaten meal. “You caught me breakfasting. As I said, I was not expecting visitors. And I gave the staff a few days off.”
Esposito was strolling around the room, hands clasped behind his back, examining the walls, searching for chips or holes that would indicate bullet marks. He asked, “Sergeant, how many rounds were exchanged?”
D’Agosta thought a moment. “Four. Three went into Pinketts. The other should be somewhere on the wall above the fireplace. If it hasn’t been plastered over.”
But of course there was no mark: none at all.
Esposito turned toward the count. “This Pinketts, may we meet him?”
“He’s back in England for a few weeks. Left the day before yesterday—a death in the family, I understand. I would be glad to give you his address and telephone number in Dorset.”
Esposito nodded. “Later.”
Another silence fell over the room.
He’s not English! D’Agosta almost shouted. And his name’s not Pinketts! But he knew there was no point in arguing about it now. Fosco had clearly prepared things all too well. And he would not allow himself to rise to the bait—not in front of the colonnello.
Find Pendergast. That’s the most important thing.
Two of the carabinieri returned, speaking rapidly in Italian to the colonnello. Esposito turned to D’Agosta. “My men found no sign of the car in the garages or anywhere else on the grounds.”
“He’s obviously disposed of it.”
Esposito nodded thoughtfully. “What was the rental company?”
“Eurocar.”
Esposito turned back to his men, spoke in Italian. The men nodded and left.
“After Fosco returned from Florence, we were locked in an old storeroom,” D’Agosta said, struggling against a growing sense of panic. “In the cellars. I can lead you there. The stairway’s just off the pantry.”