The Malaspiga Exit (21 page)

‘Our own were torn down from here,' he explained. ‘They were sold very cheaply for a few thousand dollars. I had to buy these to replace them.'

She looked at them and said, ‘They must have cost a fortune.' Probably as much as a single consignment of heroin would buy.

‘Not quite,' he said. ‘I've had them for about three years. But I couldn't afford them now.' She didn't want him to see her face, to see the bitterness, the contempt for his hypocrisy. A millionaire many times over, so Raphael had said. Trafficking in suffering and death.

‘Where is the poudreuse stored?' She asked the question quickly, stifling a wish to turn and run, to run out of the Castle with its treasures and its history, from the man standing so close that when he turned their shoulders touched.

He reached out and opened a small panelled door. ‘Down here,' he said. ‘I'll switch the light on, and be careful. The steps down are very steep.' They began the descent into the room below. It was a big store-room, a quarter of the size of the Banqueting Hall above, brilliantly lit by fluorescent lighting. Katharine slipped her hand into her pocket, gripping the marker. With her finger and thumb she eased off the cap.

There were a dozen pieces of furniture, stacked neatly at the end of the room. A superb Italian cassone, its front and lid painted and carved, two Florentine chairs of grotesque shape and form, their arms shaped as Nubian boys, a crest rising from the centre of the backs; two tables, including one small scagliola, its coloured marbles creating an exquisitely intricate design of birds and flowers and fruit, with a classical motif. On the table there stood a small marble bust of a child, and a Renaissance bronze inkwell in the form of a nest of serpents. A Venetian console table, another cassone, simpler and smaller than the first, an ebony cabinet, inlaid with ivory and silver, and the poudreuse itself. The ormolu mountings were like gold; they embellished a gem of eighteenth-century French craftsmanship. Katharine stopped in front of it.

It was made in tulipwood, the top, drawers and sides marquetried in a pattern of scrolls and wreaths of flowers, the centre depicting a pair of doves with an olive branch between their beaks.

‘It's magnificent,' Katharine said. She stepped close to it, and pulled out the drawer. Alessandro was behind her; she had the marker in her palm and she pressed the tip of it along the inside of the polished wood. Her hand was shaking as she closed it again.

‘Lovely things,' she said. The chairs were next; she sat in both of them, again the marker slid along the edge of the seats; she went on making comments; moving among the pieces, pulling out drawers, lifting the lids of the cassones.

Even the ornaments, Raphael had said. Bronzes had to be memorized. The sinister nest of serpents wouldn't be difficult to identify. She was touching the marble bust of the child when Alessandro said suddenly, ‘What do you think of that?'

‘It's charming. It has such an innocent expression. But it looks modern.'

‘It is,' he said. She hid her hand in her pocket, gripping the marker tightly. ‘It's John's work. There is a pair. I sell them for him, and he makes a little money. They don't command much, three thousand dollars will buy both of them, but he likes to feel he's independent.'

‘The more I look at it,' she said, ‘the less I like it. It's sentimental and after the first impression it cloys a bit. He shouldn't do things like that, even to make money. It can't help his reputation.'

‘It's sentimental because it's commercial,' Alessandro said. ‘I'm glad you weren't taken in for more than a few minutes. All our family have good taste. He did a fine male nude last year. I sold that to Sweden and it fetched quite a lot of money. One day he'll make a great name. In the meantime he must work hard and save what he earns.'

‘And you'll go on supporting him?'

‘Of course.' He smiled at her. ‘He creates beauty, and that is one of God's great gifts to men. We have always promoted the arts and looked after artists. It's a Florentine tradition. The treasures of the Renaissance only came into being because the Medicis and people like our ancestors commissioned most of them.'

‘Where does he work?' she asked. ‘He told me he spends a lot of time up here.'

‘He has a workshop on the northern side; I've given him the ground floor of a big store-room where he can keep his marble and work in peace. He is very sensitive, you know. He lacks confidence in himself and he won't let anyone see his work until it's ready. I have to build up his confidence; I've seen him come out of that room weeping sometimes, when he wasn't satisfied. There's the companion to that bust.' He lifted the little head and shoulders of a boy and stood it next to the girl. They made a charming pair, a study in innocence with a disturbing superficiality about them. Katharine saw a picture standing on an easel; it was covered by a green cloth.

‘That must be something good,' she said. ‘What is it?'

His hesitation was unmistakable; he concealed it quickly, but he caught her arm, holding tightly to keep her from moving towards the picture.

‘A landscape,' he said. ‘One of those dull Venetian views of the Grand Canal—I detest Canaletto and I doubt this is genuine. But your Americans love those sort of pictures. Let's go upstairs now and go out into the sunshine. There's nothing more to see down here. I want to show you some of the gardens.'

There was nothing she could do. He guided her firmly away and towards the stairs, stepping aside to let her go ahead of him. She took her hand out of the cardigan pocket. She hadn't marked the marble children, and, most important of all, he had steered her away from the picture. She had seen one corner of a Florentine frame. They were heavily carved and often massively out of proportion to the painting. Hollowed out, such a frame could contain a large quantity of heroin. They crossed the Banqueting Hall and through the long passage with the armour, walking quickly. She sensed that his mood was a happy one, that the danger was past from his point of view, since she hadn't been allowed to approach the painting. And unless she could see it and positively identify it, the whole purpose of her coming to the Castle might have been defeated. As they came into the hall they heard the car coming into the courtyard. The entrance door was open, hooked back on a thick iron ring. The sunlight outside was blinding. Alessandro caught her by the hand.

‘Come to the gardens with me,' he said. ‘We can go another way …' She hesitated just long enough, and then his mother walked through the door, assisted by John Driver; Prince Alfredo and Francesca following. The old Duchess freed herself of Driver's arm once she had climbed the few steps and came towards her son. There was a look of gentle determination in her eyes. The smile she gave to Katharine was especially warm.

‘Sandro,' she said. ‘I want to steal you away for a few minutes. Poor Father Dino spoke to me after Mass; he's so worried about the new heating system … you will excuse us, my dear?' She slipped her hand through his arm. It was covered in a pale grey glove and buttoned to the elbow.

Mother and son moved away, leaving Katharine alone with John Driver; the Uncle and Francesca had disappeared. She saw the Canadian turn and look for her. And then reluctantly turn back.

‘I'd like to talk to you,' Katharine said quietly. ‘Let's go outside.' He took her to the little formal garden at the side of the Castle wall. It was a sheltered place, hewn out of the rocks, protected from the winds which could sweep down from the mountains, shaded by cleverly planted olive trees. A beautifully carved marble seat with gryphon arms was set under a clump of mimosa which was in brilliant yellow bloom. Above them the eastern keep soared into the sky, stark and grey, with arrow slits above the level of the first floor. It was still and airless, the heat beating back off the stones. Katharine sat down under the trailing yellow rachmese; she reached up and pulled a long tassel of mimosa off and began picking the little yellow buds off one by one.

‘What's happened?' Driver asked her. ‘I guess he made a pass?'

‘No,' she answered. He came and sat down beside her. He seemed worried and irritable, as if what the Duke was doing were her fault.

‘Why don't you go back to Florence?' he said. ‘I offered to drive you. The situation's going to blow up and he couldn't give a damn. He's such a bastard! He forces Francesca to go to church every Sunday when they're up here and he has the gall to stay behind this morning and play lover boy with you—right in front of her!'

‘I said so myself,' Katharine said. ‘He told me people would be scandalized if she didn't go.' He didn't answer; his hands were gripped between his knees and he rocked slightly backwards and forwards, staring at the ground and frowning.

‘You're in love with her, aren't you?' She hadn't meant to say it.

He glanced at her slowly. ‘She's a wonderful person,' he said. ‘And he's a bastard.' He looked at the ground again. There was silence; there were no more mimosa buds left. They lay scattered by Katharine's feet.

‘I saw the busts of the boy and girl,' she said. ‘They were beautiful.'

He turned and looked at her for a moment. ‘They're not beautiful,' he said. ‘They're crap, and you know it. I had a beautiful idea. Youth and innocence; pure innocence, the soul without Original Sin, shown through the medium of the purest stone in the world. White, white marble. I thought about it for months. You know something? It's almost impossible to portray the better side of human nature—lust and greed and fear and hate, they're easy. But try love, or courage, or purity … those two heads are just crap, like I said. They'll end up in some apartment decorated by a smart fag and people'll hang their hats on them at cocktail parties.'

‘You shouldn't run yourself down,' she said quietly. ‘Sandro says you have a great talent.' He surprised her by turning round and smiling. It was a painful thing to see.

‘He's damn right,' he said. ‘I have. I have a very great talent indeed.' He straightened up, his hands came loose from each other. He made a visible effort to relax. ‘I get discouraged,' he said. ‘Maybe I do have the artistic temperament, after all. Why did you want to talk to me?'

The first time she had met him at the villa she had felt he might turn out to be a friend. He was unhappy, frustrated, working on things which dissatisfied him, suffering the torment of the artist who has not yet found his goal or realized his true capacity. Katharine sympathized with him, even more because he was forced to stand helplessly by while the woman he loved was humiliated.

He could have been a friend, but now he blamed her because of Alessandro. He blamed her for coming, for encouraging her cousin; for not taking his offer and leaving the Castle. ‘I'm very anxious to leave here,' she said. ‘You said you'd take me.'

‘And I will.' He didn't hide his eagerness. ‘We can go right after lunch. Everyone rests; we won't be missed till this evening.'

The temptation to tell him the truth almost overcame her. If he knew why she was there and why she couldn't run away … if she told him what Alessandro really was—the sun slid behind a little cloud. He wouldn't believe her. The Duke of Malaspiga a heroin smuggler, a murderer. It was too fantastic. She could imagine the disbelief on his face. He would be sure to tell her cousin. She got up, buttoning the cardigan. There was a tiny pinpoint of stain from the edge of the marker. The top must have come off. She saw him looking at it. ‘I can't go till tomorrow,' she said. ‘I promised to stay today. But tomorrow morning. Early. Will you take me?'

‘Sure,' he said. ‘But it ought to be today. For Christ's sake try and keep out of his way when Francesca's there. It's the least you can do.'

‘I will,' she promised. They turned and began to walk back towards the Castle. There was only one way to obtain the proof that Raphael needed. She had to get back into the storeroom and see the picture. And mark it.

Outside the shelter of the garden, the sun escaped its cloud. For a moment Katharine paused. They had reached a low part of the outer wall. Below them there was a chasmic drop of many hundreds of feet on to the roofs of Malaspiga below. ‘It's even higher up than I thought,' she said.

‘It's a very exposed place,' Driver answered. ‘But it was built to dominate the countryside. You couldn't attack it with an army up this hill. Close the outer gates and you'd have to be a bird to get in.'

Nathan was dozing in the detention room; he had his tie off and his shoes and he stretched himself out in the chair, his head leaning against the back, and within a few minutes he was asleep. He was sore and bruised from Carpenter's assault, but his mind was at peace and because of this he slept. Marie was safe. Even if Taylor had been picked up, he knew that Nathan had kept to his bargain. Harper was convinced that the antique dealer would crack under pressure. Nathan didn't think so; tired and aching, at that time he didn't really care. His only motive was love for his wife and determination that nothing should harm her. He would have connived at anything, including murder, to protect Marie. His department had no proof against him; circumstantial evidence wouldn't hold up if they brought charges. So long as Taylor kept his head and waited for the inevitable sharp lawyer to get him out, the worst that Nathan could expect was to be fired from the Bureau. He could survive that. One of the less-particular detective agencies would be happy to employ him. They paid better than government service. When the door opened he was instantly awake. He saw Carpenter standing there. He reached down for his shoes and put them on. He wasn't going to take another beating. He got up and stood ready, his fists swinging lightly at his sides.

‘Ben Harper wants to see you. Upstairs.' An armed security guard was behind Carpenter. Nathan knotted his tie back on, picked up his jacket and walked out of the room. They closed him in on either side. They took the lift eight floors up to Harper's office. The secretary was hiding behind her machine as they came in; she didn't look up. There was a patrolman in Ben's office. Nathan was surprised to see that. Harper's face had a blank look; he was turning a pencil over in his hands, round and round between his fingers.