Death Among the Ruins (16 page)

“Where was the oxcart going?”

“Napoli,” the woman replied.

Arabella thanked her, and handed over the money.

“Naples,” she repeated gloomily as the carriage proceeded down the road. “From Naples, it might have been loaded onto a ship and gone anywhere.”

“No,” said Bergamini with sudden animation. “I think I know
exactly
where it went! A few days ago I was speaking with the curator of the Naples Museum, when he excused himself to talk to a workman waiting in the hall outside. I heard the man complaining about a lot of junk that had suddenly turned up in the storeroom where he kept his tools. He didn’t know what they were, he said. But there were a lot of them. And they were all wrapped up in canvas and burlap!”

“Professor,” said Arabella. “How long would it take to arrange accommodation for us in Naples?”

 

That evening, the hotel kitchen staff prepared cocoa for all the guests, which, considering that they had never made it before, was a noble effort. Arabella had overseen its preparation, but forgot to mention that cocoa is usually served in cups, and the landlady had given orders for wineglasses to be set out upon a clever contrivance that rotated like a spinning platter.

The advent of cocoa cheered the Beaumonts no end. Charles actually smiled—something he rarely did away from his gambling hells—and Belinda kept explaining to everyone that the cocoa had been a gift from Professor Bergamini. Instead of being put off by the unusual wineglass presentation, Arabella had entered at once into the spirit of the occasion, which was reminiscent for her of long-ago nursery celebrations, and in a correspondingly childlike frame of mind, she believed that the excitement generated by the cocoa somehow related to her own extraordinary qualities as a person of note. For that reason, she disdained to use an ordinary glass, and instead appropriated—without asking—an expensive Venetian goblet from the cabinet.

Mr. Kendrick was subdued in the presence of Renilde, whom he had not seen since the night she had tried to seduce him. (She had been taking all her meals in her room, and these days only came downstairs to collect the post.) Besides, the two parties had barely been on speaking terms after the unlawful breaking-and-entering episode. But the cocoa actually went a little way toward effecting a thaw.

“Well, now,” said Terranova. “We have cocoa, and a roomful of people who must have encountered interesting stories, either true or untrue, in the course of their lives. Who’ll give us a tale?”

“I know a story,” Mr. Kendrick volunteered.

“That is good of you, Reverend, and of course we all remember your last one! But perhaps we had better have the ladies start us off.”

In the end, and to no one’s very great surprise, the honor devolved on Arabella.

“Once upon a time,” she began, “there lived a garden slug, who was typical of his kind in every way but one: He wished to be a person of consequence.

“ ‘No one will ever notice me down here in the cabbages,’ he sniveled. ‘And I have such gifts! Such talents! Such brilliance to share with the world!’”

“And had he?” asked Belinda.

“What do you think? He was just a slug, after all.”

“He sounds like Nero,” said Terranova thoughtfully, stroking his beard.

“Well, for my part, I pity the poor creature,” said Kendrick. “Imagine what it must feel like to know for a certainty that there will never be any way out of one’s wretched existence but death.”

“And yet, you have just described the condition known as ‘life,’ Mr. Kendrick,” said Arabella. Signora Fiorello appeared with a pitcher and began pouring cocoa into the wineglasses. “But I do not mind in the least. Personally, I am finding life quite enjoyable, at the moment.”

“Naturally,” he said. “But you are a human being. Life cannot be nearly as rich or as satisfying for the slugs of this world!”

At that moment, someone began pounding the heavy iron ring that served as a front door knocker. Signora Fiorello set down the pitcher and hurried out to answer it. Her husband, too, came running at the summons.

The coffee room’s occupants fell silent as an officious voice without was heard commanding or demanding something. This was followed by argumentative jabbering from the landlord, and the words “no-no-no!” repeated frequently. Terranova exchanged uneasy glances with his monks.

“Let us go and see whether we may be of any assistance,” he said, rising. The rest of the company followed him into the entrance hall, where two gargantuan soldiers and their enormous officer loomed over the diminutive landlord. The signora was arguing, too, and trying to break into the circle to stand next to her spouse.

“What goes on here?” asked Arabella in her best imperious tones. “Do you gentlemen speak English?”

At the sight of her, all three soldiers removed their hats, and the officer, apparently mistaking her for the proprietress, said, “Sorry,
signorina,
for the disturbance. But we have had a report that a dangerous speech was recently made here, and we must investigate. Can you tell us anything about this matter?”

Arabella turned to look for Father Terranova, and was just in time to see him slipping out of the coffee room to rejoin the company. He had evidently gone back inside for some purpose. Now he stood waiting in the shadows, surrounded by his monks. He was beyond the reach of the central lantern, and completely at her mercy.

“Yes,” she said calmly. “I can tell you all about it, in fact. That man over there was the focus of a large gathering some days ago, when he addressed a crowd from the balcony that overlooks Ercolano.”

The soldiers all turned toward Terranova. “Yes?” said the officer. “And can you tell us what this speech was about,
signorina?
”

“Quite. He was baptizing the victims who died in the eruption of 79
A.D.
Hardly a danger,
signor
. On the contrary, it was an act of mercy.”

Then Father Terranova stepped into the light, and a gasp of recognition went up from the soldiers, who knelt and asked his pardon. The officer apologized for the intrusion, and the warriors returned from whence they had come. Terranova was evidently a man of some renown.

“Those men did not look like Italians,” said Arabella.

“No,” said Terranova. “They were Austro-Hungarians.”

“Then, why . . . no, never mind. The explanation is doubtless political.”

After the rest of the guests had returned to the coffee room, the priest detained her at the entrance for a moment.

“Signorina,”
he said. “Thank you for that.”

“For what,
signor?
You said that you were going to bless the dead, and I must assume that you have kept your word. For I, as you know, speak no Italian.”

A glass shattered in the coffee room, and they entered to find a serving girl on her knees, mopping up a puddle of cocoa.

“The cat, she’s-a jump on the table,” explained the landlady. “Thanks to goodness, it was not my prize goblet that broke!” And after an accusing glance at Arabella, Signora Fiorello poured the contents of her Venetian masterpiece into an ordinary wineglass and set it on the revolving stand with the others. “Here,” she said, handing the beautiful goblet to one of the maids. “Wash-a this, and then return it,
very carefully,
to the cabinet! If it-a should break, you will pay for it . . . with your next five years’ wages!”

“It’s probably all cold now,” said Charles bitterly.

“Not a bit,” replied Terranova, hefting one of the glasses and feeling the temperature through it. “But you have changed seats, I think. Here, Signor Beaumont, this one was yours.” And he turned the stand. “Signorina Beaumont, I believe your cocoa is in
this
glass, now.”

He spun the platter in the opposite direction, and Renilde leaned suddenly forward. “But that one is mine, cousin!” she cried.

“No, Renilde. I do not think so. That is Signorina Beaumont’s.”

“It isn’t,” she insisted. “I have already drunk from that one, Cousin Felice. Pass it to me! Please!”

“No,” he repeated, his voice heavy with menace. “That is
Signorina Beaumont’s.
”

Renilde glanced at Arabella, her face eloquent with anguish.

Good God, thought the courtesan, is Terranova trying to poison me? She immediately took up the glass he had spun round to her, not in order to drink it, but to remove it from that murderously rotating platter. It smelt perfectly fine, although that did not signify. She toyed with it, and swirled the liquid around the glass for a while, before finally setting it down.

“Here is yours, Reverend Kendrick,” said Terranova, continuing to distribute the cocoa via the “lazy Susan,” “ . . . and Aunt Ginevra’s . . . and Signorina Belinda’s . . .”

Finally, all the glasses had been served save one, and the priest took that for himself.

“Renilde . . . ? We are now one glass short, it seems,” he said, smiling.

“I am not taking any, Cousin Felice.”

“I insist. Cocoa is very healthful. It will calm your nerves.”

“No, thank you,” she replied. “I really do not care for cocoa!”

“Now, I
know
that’s not true,” he said. “I remember in London last year, you could not get enough of it. And look— Signorina Beaumont is not drinking
hers
. Don’t you like cocoa,
signorina?
”

“I like it exceedingly,” said Arabella. “But I have some writing to do tonight, and I am afraid its well-known soporific effect will put me to sleep before I have completed my task.”

He reached out, and placed her glass back upon the platter once more. “In that case,” he said, “we shall not waste Professor Bergamini’s generous gift. Renilde, you may have this glass, after all.”

The girl fell back against her chair, and to everyone’s surprise, began to cry!

“Please,” she sobbed. “Please! I am very sorry, cousin!”

“You have been over-excited, Renilde,” he said soothingly. “Drink your cocoa, and everything will be all right.”

“I do not want it anymore.”

“But I
insist
. It will calm your nerves, and put you to sleep. Drink it, Renilde. Drink it
now
.”

The young woman suddenly seemed to master her weakness. She straightened herself, took up Arabella’s rejected glass, looked at Kendrick, looked defiantly at Terranova, and tossed off the contents in a single draught.

“Now, if you will all excuse me,” said Renilde firmly, “I am going to bed.”

“Yes,” Terranova agreed. “Your nerves have had a shock. Good night, my child. May God bless and protect thee, and may you feel better in the morning.”

Was it Arabella’s imagination, or did the girl stagger as she went through the doorway? Nobody else seemed overly concerned. As soon as Renilde had gone, the
Primary Force
turned his devil’s beard in Arabella’s direction, his pince-nez glittering diabolically in the light from the oil lamp.

“Your charming story was interrupted, Miss Beaumont,” he said. “Can you recall where you left off?”

 

That night, Arabella wrote in her CIN:

 

The next morning, Renilde failed to come down to breakfast.

“Where is Miss Rinaldo?” asked Arabella.

“She . . . is gone,” said Osvaldo.

“Gone? Gone where?”

“What Osvaldo means,” said Father Terranova, his be-ringed fingers flashing as he cut his ham, “is that Renilde is with God.”

Terranova’s party crossed themselves without looking up from their plates.

Arabella could scarcely believe her ears. “What are you saying? Do you mean that she has died?”