Fanatics (9 page)

Turning the coin over I read,

“Interesting,” I whispered. “ ‘Hieronymvs’ appears on both the medal and in the book.”

I replaced the medal and carefully fitted the lid, then turned to the last article in the cupboard. It was heavy, wrapped in a black velvet cloth so soft the bulky object it enclosed almost slipped out of my hands. I found myself cradling an ornately tooled cross at least sixty centimetres high and encrusted with jewels. The dusky gold seemed to glow from within. Never in my life had I held something so valuable and beautiful.

On closer inspection, one of the jewels turned out to be a dome of clear but imperfect glass held to the base with clips, like a gem in a ring. The glass seemed to cover something brownish black, a kind of disk with a hole in the middle, that had been set into the gold.

Professor Corbizzi must have been a religious man as well as a secretive one, I thought, pushing the thick manuscript into the file case. I wound the string around the paper button, then replaced each object where I had found it and rolled down the door. I locked the cupboard and swung the bookcase door into position, hearing the solid but faint click of the catch. I placed the knot back in its spot and locked the outside cupboard, then slipped the keys under the rosary in the tobacco tin I had found in the escritoire. Carrying the damaged drawer, I left the library with relief, sliding the door shut and thinking about the strange cupboard’s contents and wondering if Mrs. Stoppini knew about them.

I
STOOD IN THE KITCHEN DOORWAY
, the drawer in my hand, watching her crank the handle of a pasta-making machine. She hadn’t heard me come into the kitchen. Whatever contrast there was between the two of us, we both liked to cook. There she was, making fresh linguine noodles for her supper, which she would eat alone.

She was a strange woman, with her outdated clothing—which I had assumed was a mourning outfit but now wasn’t so sure about—her formal speaking style, her old-fashioned manners which didn’t quite succeed in glossing over a stern, unyielding personality. She was lost in concentration, humming a sad tune I didn’t recognize.

I cleared my throat, startling her.

“Sorry. I’m just going to reset this drawer and then head off home.”

She eyed the drawer, then looked at me.

“It sticks,” I explained. “I can fix it in no time.”

Her stare didn’t waver.

“It’s what I do,” I added lamely.

Brushing flour from her hands, she said, “That’s most kind of you, Mr. Havelock. Perhaps you’d care for a beverage before you leave.”

I didn’t, but it would have been rude to refuse. Besides, the thought of her drudging away at her pasta machine, alone in a huge house, got to me.

“That would be great,” I replied. “I’ll just slop a little glue on this. Won’t take ten minutes.”

An almost-smile moved those strange red lips. “Splendid. What would you like to drink?”

“A cappuccino would be good.”

She frowned as if I had tracked cow flop across her kitchen floor. “In civilized countries, cappuccino is never served after twelve o’clock.”

Well, pardon me, I thought. What a boor you must think me. Instead I said, “One of your delicious macchiatos?”

“Very well.”

When I returned from the shop, the sideboard had been cleared, the pasta hung on a drying rack, and the green light glowed on the espresso machine. Mrs. Stoppini drew a tiny cup of coffee, added a drop of frothed milk, and placed it on the table in front of me along with a half-dozen squares of dark chocolate on a china plate.

She sat down with a glass of red wine.

“Chianti?” I asked.

“Indeed.”

“I’m hoping Raphaella will be able to come tomorrow,” I told her.

“I shall look forward to it.”

“Um, Mrs. Stoppini, I want to ask you something.”

She put down her glass, her thick dark eyebrows lifting slightly. She fixed her fish-eyes on me expectantly, her bizarrely made-up lips in a straight line.