She Walks in Darkness (8 page)

“How horrible!”

“But such horror as the pride and power of those old families made possible. That a young girl should be kept prisoner in this lonely place to serve an old man’s lust—a few words mumbled by a priest made that right, respectable. But that youth should turn to youth—that was sin. Shame and treachery. A crime that deserved the worst of punishments.”

“And got it. The death that girl died! Slowly, in the dark—” My voice broke.

“She got off easily. She had betrayed one Carenni, and corrupted another. Women who betrayed that
sacred breed more recently have died more slowly. Uglier deaths.” The bitterness in his voice cut like a knife. “Prince Mino was no better than his ancestors, signora. Never think that. Never forget the kindness of the Carennis.”

“For a moment I wondered just what he was talking about, then sheer horror caught me again. “You said ‘uglier deaths.’ What could be worse? That poor girl—down there in the dark—”

I suppose it was because I was so very tired, had been under a strain for so long, but I suddenly began to cry. I kept on crying, out of plain panic, just because I was ashamed of myself for doing it. Floriano moved towards me and I wondered if he was going to slap me, as hysterical heroines in books and plays get slapped. I stepped back, quickly, sank into a chair.

“It’s all right. I’m all right.”

He halted. Did a shade of disappointment, of something uglier, cross that beautiful face? Make it momentarily less beautiful? It passed; he shrugged.

“But it could be much better, signora. Me, I am told that I have a good shoulder for beautiful ladies to cry on.”

No doubt,
I thought. I said, “Better not let married women use it too much. Remember Amedeo.” And laughed again. For another panicky second I thought that that laughter too was going to go on and on. Thank goodness, it didn’t.

“At least Amedeo and that girl knew joy before they died, signora.” His eyes met mine; their warmth was like a physical touch.

“I hope it was worth it.”

It hadn’t been; I knew that. Not worth the hunger and the thirst, the smell of dead flesh rotting beside her in the blackness. Flesh that had been strong and beautiful and loving, perhaps as beautiful as Floriano’s.... Had she finally turned and torn it before she died? Had that been the old devil’s plan?

“Had she lived, she would have suffered far more. With the old man sleeping beside her every night.” Floriano’s voice was very gentle; he might have been reading my thoughts. “He outlived her by ten years. She did well to enjoy her youth as best she could.”

He was closer than I had thought, close beside me. I snatched at any way to change the subject. “Hadn’t we better finish the diary? There can’t be much of it left.”

He rose to that bait, much more quickly than I had expected. “Yes.”

There wasn’t much left, but what there was soon became electrifying. There is nothing to show how or when Roger Carstairs made his great discovery, but make it he did.

“Schliemann never found such treasure at Troy, nor Evans at Knossos.... Masses...brought here from many palaces and temples, one by one...cities fell before the Romans. He’s labeled some...from...fabled shrine or two-sexed Veltha, whose site nobody knows, though for ages the Rasenna from all Twelve Cities gathered there
yearly.... Never has been...discovery like this. Never...can’t keep his secret, such treasure belongs to all men everywhere. But how the devil will I ever make the old fellow understand...feel damned ungrateful....”

And then the blow had fallen. When it was struck, the diary must have been open. What was now an ugly brownish dullness had gushed out across the paper, red and wet. Across that paper on which Roger Carstairs had been writing his last words.

I said softly, shivering a little, “So that was it.”

Floriano did not seem to hear me. “It is still there!” His eyes were blazing. “Still somewhere down there.”

I was disgusted. “Whatever is down there, it wasn’t worth a man’s life.”

“You say that, a woman! Have you ever seen Etruscan jewelry? The wonder of it, the shining golden wonder!”

“He may have meant statues, vases. To archaeologists, treasure doesn’t have to mean gold.”

He laughed. “The Romans carried off Veltha’s own image—the thing the Etruscans held holiest! Only the things fleeing men could carry under their cloaks could have been saved. Small things, slim things. Gold!”

“I see. Perhaps you’re right.”

He rushed on as if he had not heard me. “I have heard Prince Mino say that in a coffer at the foot of Veltha’s image, golden tablets lay. Tablets on which were engraved Tages’s words that Tarchon wrote down. The dirty kingly plotter pretending to take dictation from his little stooge! Poor little parrot, trained to recite his lesson and then doomed to have his neck wrung for his obedience.”

He could pity poor little long-dead Tages, whose murder he could fit into his political philosophy; he seemed already to have forgotten that of Roger Carstairs. Probably Prince Mino had seen that only as the execution of a traitor, a would-be thief, necessary and just. I felt a sick revulsion against both men, prince and communist. I said shortly, “We don’t even know that Tages ever lived. And what if those tablets were gold? The inscriptions on them would be worth far more than anything they could possibly be made of.”

He snorted, “Dirty propaganda worth more because it is old! I would be glad to melt them with my own hands—those lies that were graven there to enslave men! But the jewelry—the wonderful, shining jewelry—”

His own flushed face shone, virile red lips parted, dark eyes glowing. His beauty was dazzling. I thought, touched,
It isn’t the money value he’s thinking of. It’s the beauty he loves, as innocently as a child would. The sheer beauty of all those golden, sparkling things.

No, he was not callous. The vision of all that buried splendor had simply shut everything else out of his head. In that too he was like a child; and I was glad. The pressure of that warm male magnificence, whose pull any two-legged female must have felt, was lifted from me. His consciousness of me had faded.

I said, thinking aloud, “Prince Mino killed Roger, but why didn’t he take the diary? I can’t imagine him
leaving it around for Mattia Rossi or anyone else to find.”

“Mattia must have found it after the Allies took his master away.” Floriano spoke quickly, too quickly. I had again that queer feeling that he was afraid.

“But if he couldn’t read it, why should he think it would help him to find the treasure? Which it wouldn’t, really.”

“He must have heard Prince Mino speak words that made him think so.” But Floriano spoke without conviction; he muttered, after a moment’s silence, “He cannot be here. He cannot.”

But just then I had what I thought was an inspiration; I felt like a fool for not having had it hours before.

“Professor Harris’s desk! There must be papers there—maybe keys. It’s the only place where I haven’t looked for keys! The papers might record Prince Mino’s death. And if we could lock those cellar doors, couldn’t you risk going for help? Though I don’t believe anybody’s down there. That book certainly didn’t give him any map to the treasure.”

The murderer had dropped it because he found it useless,
I thought,
the information it held unimportant beside his need to flee from the scene of his crime.
And now this queer, inexplicable fear of Floriano’s gave me an advantage; because of his dread of a feeble old man, he might just possibly leave the villa.

For a moment he stood thinking. “There are no windows in the cellar. A man down there would be
trapped.... And you are right; very likely he is gone. But first let us search the good professor’s desk.”

We did. We found the keys in the first drawer we opened. One by one I tried them in the hall door while Floriano ransacked the professor’s papers. I felt guilty about letting him do that, but I didn’t know how to prevent it. The keys seemed unimportant now, but handling them gave me something to do, and for more than one reason I was nervous.

I had just found the right key—the prize that would have meant so much a few hours ago—when an exclamation from Floriano made me turn.

“Prince Mino
is
here, signora!” Exultation, terrible triumph, flamed in his eyes. “Here. Below us.”

I shrank back, but he rose and came toward me. His face glowed; his bright smile was back. Now all of him blazed like a flame.

“Have no fear.” His hand closed on my arm. “He will not come creeping up those dark stairs when night comes. He will stay quietly where he is. As quietly as all the others.”

“You don’t mean—”

“See!” He thrust a letter at me. “This is what the good doctor in charge of the sanitarium wrote to our good professor. Read it. No, I forgot. You cannot read Italian, I must read it to you.”

It was a little while before I began to catch the words. “...thank you for your help in fulfilling the last wishes of the late Prince Carenni. Also for your kind
inquiries concerning the last days of so distinguished (and unjustly calumniated) a gentleman. They were calm; for months we had known that the end must be near, and, thanks to God, I was able to spare him pain. His courage never faltered; but although he had no religious belief and refused the services of a priest, he could not entirely shake off the ancestor worship of his forefathers. A week before his death he said to me, ‘One urn among many there; that is my right. If there were consciousness after death, I should be unable to rest elsewhere. And even there, I believe—I who thought I knew how foolish was the idea of survival—I should not rest if ever the hands of vandals should disturb those most ancient holy places of my people. Somehow I should rise to avenge them.’ And then he smiled and said, ‘Forgive a sick old man’s fancies.’ But well I know that, thanks to your good care, nothing of the sort will ever trouble him where he lies beneath the house of his ancestors, in that rock chamber of his own choosing.”

So that was that; the ghost was laid. No incredibly nimble old man had hidden in the trunk of Richard’s car yesterday. No incredibly nimble old madman was hiding down there now, red-handed, in his own cellars.

But somebody’s feet had trodden the stones of that cellar floor. Somebody had killed old Mattia Rossi. Who?

No matter. All that really mattered now was that Floriano was not going to go for help. I felt that in my bones, knew it with a sickening certainty.

e did not know what was coming, signora.” Floriano smiled as he laid the paper down.

“Who didn’t?” For a second I had forgotten Prince Mino.

He did not seem to hear me. Behind him the windows blazed red with the last of the sunset. I thought it must be the reflected light that made his eyes fiery.

“What fools, all of them! The noble prince and the good doctor, all your learned archaeologists too. The treasure
is
here. And so is the treasure-seeker! Walking over his bones—over the great, proud Prince Mino’s! And he will not rise from his ashes. He cannot rise. He can do nothing, that proud one, but lie there. Not even knowing. By the God that is not”—Floriano’s fist struck the table as if it were living flesh—“I wish he could know!”

I didn’t understand. I said stupidly, “You think the murderer is still here then? That he didn’t leave on your wheel?” But I was glad that his assault on the table had made him let go of my arm.

He smiled again, gaily, slyly. “Probably he did. But certainly Prince Mino will never trouble us. The dead do not walk. Let us think of pleasanter things.”

Before I could move, he had me; his arms tight about me, his kisses coming hard and fast upon my mouth. His hunger was a contagion. That was the horrible part; I was no longer myself. Not Barbara, Richard’s wife, not even a woman; only a mindless female stripped of all individuality, and so of dignity, the thing that only one’s own individual worth can give.

“No—no!” I tried to pull away, to push him away, but he held me too tightly. He was talking now, spacing his words with lighter, gentler kisses, his voice as soft as velvet. “Let us be happy. Now. Before night comes. The long night that swallows up even the proud Prince Carennis. Let us be happy first, carissima.”

I should have laughed at him, have told him to find some more cheerful way of seducing me, but in that place such words seemed natural enough. Besides, I was afraid. Could Floriano be made to believe that any woman, once he had had her, could feel unhappy and ashamed? He would think her bound to respond at the last instant....

“No!” I was still trying to fight him, but I could only squirm ingloriously, like a hooked fish. “My husband—”

He laughed. “That one? He lies there like a stick or a stone. He cannot enjoy your beauty now; what right has he to begrudge it to a man who can? Is a beautiful woman property, like a horse or a dog? Do I not please you? All these hours your eyes have been telling me so. And now your mouth....”

He kissed me again. For another degrading moment the whole world seemed to be burned away. Then I only felt sick and cold and ashamed. Could it be true? Ever since he came, had I been wanting this?

I had stopped struggling, and he thought I was ready. His hands shot downward, to my dress. I sprang back so sharply that I tore away from him. He leapt after me, delighted, white teeth flashing, and caught me again.

“No! no!”

“Yes, yes, bellissima!”

Since I couldn’t get away I went limp. “You don’t understand.”

“What do I not understand?” He rubbed his cheek against mine. “Chastity—that nonsense with which the Church, that old servant of wealth and power, fills the heads of you women? So that proud, high-born men like the Carenni can feel sure that their own rotten blood flows in the veins of those who inherit their lands and wealth?”

“Richard—my husband—and I love each other. We don’t think about things like property or bloodlines.”

“It is love, then, that I do not understand?” His cheek still rubbed mine, his bright eyes teased me tenderly. “I could teach you a great deal about love, carissima. I do not think you know much about it yet.”

Once again he kissed me, but this time my blood did not make that automatic, shaming response. He should not have sneered at Richard’s lovemaking.

I said, “I don’t belong to Richard, but I do belong to myself. You have no right to force me.”

“Force you?
I?”
He stiffened, startled. “I only try to make you understand that you want me as I want you.”

He crushed me to him, whispering, caressing me with his hands as I never had dreamed that a man could caress a woman. I said at last, trying to keep my voice from trembling, “Please. It isn’t fair. You’re so much stronger, and I’m so tired.”

He let me go. I went somewhat shakily to a chair, and quite literally dropped into it. I closed my eyes, trying in that foolish way to shut him out, to be alone.

I heard him go to the table, heard the clink of glasses.  Then he turned back to me, and I tensed. My eyes flew open, and the look in them must have shocked him, for he stopped where he was.

“Have no fear, signora. I will not touch you. But this”—he held out a wine glass—“will help. It is most true that you are tired. Too tired for love.”

His pride and assurance were all gone. He was looking at me as a little boy with no money in his pockets might look into a shop window full of candy. And suddenly, ridiculously, I felt so sorry for him that my throat ached. He could not understand; he could not see how what he wanted could hurt either Richard or me.

I said, “It’s all right, Floriano. So long as you don’t do it again.”

“Take this, signora.” He had stepped closer, still holding out the glass. Though softly spoken, the words were a command. Instinctively I reached out my hand, then dropped it. Aren’t hypnotists sometimes supposed to begin their work subtly, by giving little commands that are not likely to be disobeyed? Casual-seeming commands? More ordinarily, he could be trying to get me drunk. The idea of having to force a woman would hurt his pride, but there were other ways, and I had no doubt he knew them all.

Then I met his eyes; those beautiful dark eyes, troubled and unhappy now, and my suspicions seemed unfair, absurd. Not to drink seemed unkind, and I didn’t want to be unkind. I wanted to do something for him. Anything in the world but that one thing.

I took the glass and started to drink.

Something made me look up; I saw his eyes watching me. Assured again, gloatingly expectant...and I knew. He might be innocent in his way, but so is the tiger that stalks the jungle at twilight; he only wants his evening meal.

The glass fell and broke; the wine splashed all over my dress. I cried out. Floriano reached for a paper napkin, but I pushed it away. “No, that’s not big enough. Get me a towel. A wet towel—”

He vanished into the bathroom. I took one long, heartsick look towards that inner room in which Richard lay; then I sprang up and ran for the hall door. It seemed miles away. How easy it would be for Floriano to dart back through one door before I could get out at the other! My heart lurched sickeningly. I heard the sound of a faucet running; Floriano must be holding the towel under it. I never had dreamed that the noise a faucet makes could be music to my ears, but nothing has ever sounded sweeter. Through that he could hear no ordinary sound I might make.

I was at the hall door. I was through it and into the hall! I had the key in my pocket; thank God that I had put it there! But how long can it take to get a key out of one’s pocket? There! I had it. I must not drop it—I must not—

And then I heard him—his shout, his rush on the other side of the door I had just closed! I plunged the key into the lock; just as his weight crashed into the heavy panels, it turned. They shook, but their ancient might held firm. It was as if all elaborately carved figures that covered them had risen to my defense, were holding him back. I heard another cry, and it was not like any sound that I ever had thought could come from Floriano’s throat.

I ran downstairs, that beast cry still ringing in my ears. “He can’t get out!” I kept telling myself that. The lack of trees and vines near the windows would keep him in ,just as I had counted on its keeping the murderer out.

The great front doors loomed before me, slammed behind me. I ran through the courtyard, and fell headlong over something that lay there. Hard leather saddle edges cut my chest. Floriano’s bicycle! It was what lay there, exactly where I had first seen it. He never had believed my story, had only invented one of his own as an excuse to stay with me.

Well, you may get a surprise, Floriano. I hope not, for Richard’s sake. But to defend yourself, you must defend him too. If the murderer comes, he will attack the man who is awake.

I was out of the courtyard now, running down the road, the breeze fresh in my face. My bruised chest ached and throbbed, but I was out of the Villa Carenni, out of all its terrors and traps. In the open, where there was no shelter to hide a pursuer.

My exultation didn’t last long. Soon my run slowed to a plodding walk; the road stretched terribly, desolately, before me. I remembered how long and lonely a way Richard and I had come—was it only yesterday? I never would be able to make it unless I met another car.

Keep going, keep going, keep watching. All my tiredness seemed to come upon me at once, like a physical weight. I wanted to cry.

That was when I saw it—not another road, nothing that we Americans, used to super-highways, would ever think of as a road—but a kind of track, leading up into the hills. The way to the village! It must be that.

That track wasn’t easy to follow. Several times I
stumbled and nearly fell again. From continually looking back over my shoulder. The sky was bright now, with afterglow, but soon night would fall. There might be a moon, but that would help my possible pursuer too. If only I could be sure the murderer was down in the vaults, busy with his treasure-hunting!

If he was above ground, if he knew I had gone, he must be following me. The person who had left the villa would represent the greatest threat to him.

But gradually fear of pursuit faded, crowded out by sheer physical misery. The track rose steadily upwards; the hills closed in around me, silent, purple, without a sign of life upon them. The climb was hard. I was swaying a little as I went, panting.
One step more, just one step more—you don’t have to think about the next step until this one’s taken. Keep going; just keep going.

I couldn’t stop to rest. I must be within sight of the village before night came. I never could see to follow that track in the dark.

I reached the top of a hill. From it I could see other hills, dark against the graying sky. I strained my eyes; hadn’t Richard said that unless you looked closely, you couldn’t see some of those old Tuscan villages from a distance? They had grown out of—and into—those hills that had held them from time immemorial.

It was there. Thank God, it was there! Smoke curling up darkly into that faded evening sky. Even in midsummer heat, the people here have to light fires to cook.

That last climb will not bear remembering. Once I did stop; surely it wouldn’t hurt to rest a little now; I was so near. A last flicker of caution made me look behind me, down those slopes where shadows were massing.

Did one shadow move?

I held my breath. I must have been wrong. No! One of the shadows was moving. A shadow too tall to be a stray goat’s....

I scrambled up and ran.
It may be just the goatherd. It may be just any villager, coming home.
I kept telling myself that, but I never believed myself.

Once I slowed down enough to look back. The shadow was no longer there, but a dark figure was climbing steadily, purposefully, behind me.

But now I could see strange, steep old houses rising up ahead of me. Could I reach them before that dark figure reached me? With a final burst of speed, I ran, ran as I never had run before. Every gasping, sobbing breath seemed to tear my lungs.