Sea Change (24 page)

'So,' Cloisterman ventured, believing he had at last caught the priest's drift, 'the Pro-Governor's prime concern is to maintain the affairs of state… in statu quo nunc.'

'Indeed it is.' Monteith's head bobbed like that of a bird pecking at seed. 'Exactly as they are now.'

'A sudden enhancement of the prospects of a restoration of the Stuart line to the British throne would not therefore be—'

'Any more compatible with that policy than their sudden extinction.'

'I see.'

'I'm glad you do. Now, the Pro-Governor does not wish to know what Mr Spandrel has been hawking around the Palazzo Muti. But he does wish to know whether your presence in Rome indicates that the consequences for your Government of His Majesty King James's acquisition of… whatever the article is… would be — how shall I put it? — disastrous.'

'That would be to put it lightly.'

'Would it, now?'

'I'm afraid so.'

'Well, well.' Monteith frowned. 'As bad as that.' Then his expression brightened. 'We shall just have to see what we can do.' He beamed at Cloisterman. 'Shan't we?'

Spandrel was still lying on his bed at the Palazzetto Raguzzi an hour later, staring sleeplessly into the darkness above his head, when he heard a noise at one of the windows. He sat up. The noise returned. It was surely that of a pebble striking the glass. He rose from the bed and crossed to the window. He had not bothered to close the shutters earlier and now had a clear view down into the moonlit piazza. A man was standing below him, preparing to throw another pebble. As he raised his head to aim, Spandrel recognized him. And froze in astonishment.

The Banco Calderini occupied the ground floor of a middling-sized palazzo near the Ponte Sant'Angelo. From the pavement in front of the bank, there was a clear view across the bridge of the Castel Sant'Angelo, the papal fortress that loomed above the Tiber. But Spandrel did not so much as glance towards it. In a deep shadow cast by the razor-sharp Roman sun, he waited, head bowed, as eleven o'clock struck on unseen church towers all around him.

Before the clocks had finished striking, his waiting ended. Buckthorn, dressed to the nines as usual, sauntered round the corner of the building and bade him an icy-smiled good morning. Spandrel said nothing, for nothing needed to be said. He led the way into the bank.

The marble-floored, high-ceilinged interior was cool and echoing, murmured consultations and shufflings of paper joining above them like the rustling of bats' wings. As they moved towards the counter, Buckthorn took something from his pocket and passed it to Spandrel. 'Duly countersigned,' he said softly. It was the receipt. 'And lo, what do we have here?' He jiggled the key to the jewel-box in his gloved palm.

The first clerk they approached spoke no English. There was a delay while a bilingual clerk was found. Then a further delay while he descended to the vault to fetch the jewel-box. Spandrel fell to studying Estelle's two signatures on the receipt. There was no discernible difference between them, no sign of suffering at the hands of her captors.

'She is well enough,' said Buckthorn, as if reading his thoughts. 'We have treated her better than she treated her husband.'

'Where is she?'

'All in good time. The book first.'

The clerk returned, carrying the scarlet jewel-box. He placed it on the counter and invited Spandrel to confirm that it had not been tampered with.

'Let's open it and see,' said Buckthorn. He unlocked the box and raised the lid. A green-covered book lay within. 'Is this a ledger which I see before me?' He chuckled, then closed the box. 'Sign for it, Spandrel.'

The clerk, who had displayed no reaction whatever on seeing what the jewel-box contained, offered Spandrel a pen. Spandrel countersigned the receipt and passed it to the clerk, along with two sequin coins: the agreed storage fee. 'Grazie, signore,' said the clerk. The transaction was at an end.

Buckthorn gathered up the box and started towards the door. Spandrel took several hurried steps to catch up with him. He wanted to ask once more where Estelle was, but something held him back.

He was still hesitating when they reached the street. There Buckthorn stopped and turned to him with a smile. 'Your meek compliance is much appreciated, Spandrel. If I were you, I'd try some other kind of work. You're not equal to this kind. Nor, to speak candidly, are you equal to Estelle. But you'll be wanting to know where she is, nonetheless. And you'll be needing this.' He handed him a key — larger and heavier than the one that had opened the jewel-box. 'Go to the Theatre of Marcellus. Look for a door with the letter E on it: E for Estelle. This is the key to the door. She'll be waiting for you inside.'

'But where is… the Theatre of Marcellus?' 'You'll find it, I'm sure. And now I really must be going. Naseby will be growing anxious, which isn't good for him. And we have an appointment at noon we really can't afford to miss.' He patted the jewel-box. 'Goodbye, Spandrel. It's been a pleasure.'

No sooner was Buckthorn out of sight than Spandrel hastened towards the Ponte Sant'Angelo. At the side of the road adjoining the bridge stood a calash, its driver seated and holding the reins, as if expecting a passenger. Spandrel climbed smartly aboard.

'Dove?' queried the driver.

'The Theatre of Marcellus,' Spandrel replied.

'Si. Il Teatro di Marcello. Andiamo.' The driver geed up the horses and they started away.

The Theatre of Marcellus stood close to the Tiber a mile or so to the south, where the river divided round the Isola Tiberina. It was an ancient Roman amphitheatre, atop which some later generation had added two storeys of their own to form a strange, hybrid palazzo. This too was now in decay, at a faster rate, it seemed, than the ruin it had squatted on. The lower arches of the amphitheatre had also been filled in, to form workshops and storerooms. Business was being conducted in some, but most were closed, their heavy wooden doors firmly shut on whatever lay within.

Telling the driver to wait, Spandrel jumped down from the calash and began running round the curve of the building, shading his eyes as he trained them on the doors. Then he saw what he was looking for: a large E, crudely daubed in yellow paint.

He turned the key in the lock and pulled the door open. Sunlight flooded into a narrow, windowless chamber in which dust swirled, but nothing else moved. There was a table to one side, with a lamp standing on it. Otherwise the room was empty. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom that lay beyond the sun's reach, he saw another door, in the middle of the rear wall. There was a barred vent above it, and through the vent came a voice from the space beyond. 'Is someone there?' It was Estelle. 'Help me. Please.'

'It's me,' Spandrel called. 'William.' Then he strode to the door, pulled back the bolts and flung it open.

She was crouched on a mattress that was actually too big for the floor it lay on and curled up against the wall at either end. The air was damp and fetid. Her face was smudged with dirt, her hair streaked with dust, her once-lovely pink moire dress creased and stained. 'Thank God you found me,' she said, rising unsteadily to her feet. 'What has—' She swayed slightly and Spandrel stepped forward to support her.

'You're safe now. My God, Estelle, I thought they might have killed you.' He tried to put his arm round her, but she pushed him away.

'I'm sorry,' she said, squinting into the sunlight behind him. 'I can't bear to be touched while I'm so filthy.'

'That doesn't matter. At least you're alive.'

She stumbled past him into the outer room. 'Where are Buckthorn and Silverwood? Where are they, William?'

'I don't know. Possibly at the Palazzo Muti.'

'You didn't—' She looked round at him sharply. 'You didn't give them the book?'

'Not exactly.'

'Then where is it?'

'I'll explain later. We must get away from here.' He gathered up her cape, which lay crumpled on the mattress, and tried to put it round her, but she shook it off.

'Explain now.'

'It'll be better if—'

'Now.'

'Estelle—'

'Tell me, William.' Her gaze was stern, her ordeal forgotten, it seemed, in the face of what she deemed far more important. 'Where is the Green Book?'

'Gone.'

'Gone where?'

'Back to England. With Cloisterman.'

'What?' She stared at him disbelievingly.

'Buckthorn and Silverwood have a green-covered ledger filled with gibberish. Whether they realize that before, during or after their meeting with the Pretender's secretary at noon is in the lap of the gods. Whenever it is, though, they'll come looking for us, quite possibly with a pack of angry Highlanders at their backs. That's why we have to leave here. Now.'

'I'm going nowhere until you explain what's happened.' Estelle's voice was as cold and implacable as her face. Already, moments after being rescued, she was thinking more about what she had lost than about what she might have gained.

'Buckthorn and Silverwood must have told you what they meant to do.'

'Of course they told me. I was trusting you to find some way to outwit them.'

'How could I? They had your countersignature on the receipt.'

'I had to sign. They held a pistol to my head.'

'I feared for your life, Estelle. Buckthorn gave me… proof that they were holding you captive.'

'The garter. Is that it? Were you afraid they might rape me?'

'Yes.' Why the answer sounded foolish Spandrel could not tell. Yet, strangely,' it did. 'Of course I was.'

'As they meant you to be. Poor credulous William. You agreed to their demands?'

'Yes. And I'd have given them what they wanted. But Cloisterman changed my mind.'

'How?'

'He came to me late last night and told me how matters stood. Apparently, the authorities know everything that happens at the Palazzo Muti. They weren't willing to let the sale of the book proceed in case the new pope didn't approve of the consequences. So, we had to be stopped. But without the Pretender realizing who'd stopped us. Cloisterman was to take the book back to the British Government. If we refused to let him and tried to sell it, we'd be arrested. When I told him about Buckthorn and Silverwood, he suggested giving them a fake ledger. The authorities instructed the bank to open the jewel-box with one of their skeleton keys. The real ledger was then impounded and handed over to Cloisterman. He's been given safe-conduct to the Tuscan border.'

'That book would have made us rich.'

'Not here, Estelle. Not in Rome. It wasn't destined to be.'

'And what is destined to be?'

'I've agreed we'll go south. To Naples. There's a trader sailing from the river-port at two o'clock. It's expecting to take on two passengers. I've packed our belongings. They're on the calash.'

'And what will we do in Naples?'

'I don't know.'

'No.' She looked at him sadly, almost pityingly. 'Exactly.'

Nothing was said as the calash bore them across the bridge onto the Isola Tiberina, then over the next bridge to the west bank of the Tiber and down to the vast riverside hospital of San Michele, beyond which lay their destination: the Porto di Ripa Grande, principal river-port of the city.

They found the trading ketch Gabbiano tied up and loading at the embankment steps. All they had to do was go aboard. But when their driver made to take their bags off the calash, Estelle told him to leave them where they were. The fellow looked helplessly at Spandrel, clearly unsure whose orders he should obey.

'We can't stay, Estelle,' reasoned Spandrel. 'You must understand that.'

For answer she merely sighed and began slowly pacing to and fro along the embankment, staring up into the blue vault of the sky and smoothing her hair as she walked. Tangled though it still was, it shimmered in the sunlight. A memory of running his fingers through those dark tresses came to Spandrel with a jag of pain, as of something precious that he had already lost.

'It's nearly one o'clock. They'll be looking for us by now. They're bound to be. We should be below decks — out of sight.'

'Hiding?' She stopped and tossed the word back at him.

'Yes.'

'And fleeing?'

'We have no choice.'

'I have a choice.'

She had never looked more beautiful than in that moment, standing on the embankment above the jumble of boats and masts and furled sails, her hair awry, her dress stained, her eyes wide and accusing. It was futile. There was nothing she could do to retrieve the book. And yet it was magnificent. There was nothing she could not do. 'We have to go,' said Spandrel. 'I gave my word.'

'Your word. Not mine.'

'For God's sake, Estelle. Please.'

She looked at him long and coolly, then said, 'No. I will not go. Not this way.'

'Then how?'

'I'm going north.'

'You can't mean…'

'I'm not giving it up. I'm not letting Mr Cloisterman steal my future from under my nose.' She began walking towards the calash. 'You go to Naples, William. You keep your word. But don't ask me to go with you. I intend to be on the next coach north. Cloisterman can't be at the border yet. And even if he is—' She reached the calash, grabbed Spandrel's bag and heaved it to the ground, stumbling with the effort. Then she turned to the driver. 'Piazza del Popolo. Subito. Rapidamente.'