The Rainaldi Quartet (33 page)

The wall of tombs wasn't smooth. Each individual sarcophagus had a lip of marble around the base and another where the lid overhung the sides. Using the protruding lengths of stone as steps, Guastafeste clambered up to Paolo Anselmi's sarcophagus and pushed one end of the lid away from him, opening up the marble casket.

‘Pass me the torch.'

I watched him examining the inside of the sarcophagus, leaning over, his head almost below the level of the sides.

‘Anything?' I said, unable to contain my impatience.

Guastafeste looked down at me, his face in shadow so that I couldn't see his expression.

‘Well?' I prompted.

‘I'm sorry, Gianni,' Guastafeste said gently. ‘It's not there.'

I refused to believe it. I'd been so sure.

‘Look again, it has to be there.'

‘I've looked,' Guastafeste said. ‘There's no violin, nothing that resembles the remains of a violin.'

I felt my legs give way suddenly. I reached out and grabbed hold of one of the tombs to support myself.

‘Gianni, what is it?' Guastafeste said in alarm.

I let out a gasp. ‘Nothing. Honestly, I'm fine.'

I straightened up, keeping my hand on the edge of the tomb. My legs were shaking, my pulse racing. I wondered fleetingly if I'd experienced a minor heart attack, but I knew it was nothing so serious. I was in mild shock, that was all; a shock induced by shattered expectations, by mental rather than physical trauma. I waited a moment, letting my breathing get back to normal. Guastafeste was sliding the lid of the sarcophagus back into place, jumping down next to me.

‘You need a drink,' he said. ‘Let's get out of here.'

He took hold of my arm, guiding me towards the exit. I kept my hand on the tombs just in case my legs went again. The cold marble under my palm was solid, comforting. I ran my fingertips over the smooth stone as we headed out of the vault. Then a gust of fresh air caught me in the face, reviving me. I paused, inhaling deeply.

‘I can manage,' I said, easing my arm from Guastafeste's grasp.

There was a waist-high marble plinth just by the exit, tucked away in the corner of the vault. I gripped the edge of it for a moment to steady myself before we went out through the wrought-iron gates. My thumb slid into a hole in the stone. I extricated it and rubbed the grazed knuckle, then stepped forward over the threshold of the vault, seeing the night sky above me, the moon obscured by cloud.

I came to an abrupt halt. A
hole?
Why would there be a hole?

‘Let me have the torch,' I said to Guastafeste.

‘It's all right, I'll lead the way.'

‘No, I'm going back inside.'

‘What? Gianni, look…'

‘The torch.'

I took the torch from his fingers and went back into the vault, shining the beam on to the marble plinth. It was perhaps a metre long and half that in width. It struck me as incongruous. The vault in every other respect was symmetrical, yet there was no corresponding plinth on the opposite side of the entrance. I examined the top. It overhung the sides by four or five centimetres and cut into its underside was a series of holes. I crouched down and shone the torch upwards, sliding my forefinger into one of the holes. It seemed to go right through into the inside of the plinth.

‘The crowbar,' I said.

‘Gianni, it's not there. Don't torture yourself,' Guastafeste said.

‘Let me have it.'

Reluctantly, Guastafeste handed me the crowbar. I jammed one end under the top of the plinth and levered it downwards. The lid started to give a little. I forced the crowbar further in and pressed down on it. With a sudden jolt the marble slab broke free of the sides. I heaved the slab aside and shone the torch down into the hollow interior of the plinth. Only it wasn't completely hollow. There was a small casket inside it, a rectangular box of what looked like lead. I tried to lift it out, but it was too heavy.

‘Antonio, help me.'

‘Help…' Guastafeste peered inside the plinth. ‘
Dio.
What is that?'

I grasped one end of the lead casket, Guastafeste the other and together we lifted it out and placed it on the floor. I noticed that, like the marble plinth, the casket had air holes cut into one of its sides. It was locked. I knelt down and broke open the lock with the crowbar. I paused, preparing myself. Then I took hold of the lid and slowly raised it. Inside was another box made of wood – a long, tapering box about the size and shape of a violin case. Guastafeste came closer, looming over my shoulders.

‘Open it,' he said.

Then another voice said, in English: ‘Yes, why not?'

Christopher Scott was standing in the entrance to the vault. Guastafeste straightened up, twisting round, but Scott was ready for him. The length of timber he was holding in his hand came hammering down on to the side of Guastafeste's head. Wood and skull connected with jarring force. Guastafeste grunted and crumpled to the floor. Scott leaned over him and with one slick movement removed Guastafeste's police revolver from the holster under his arm. Scott pointed the revolver at me.

‘Give me the box.'

I ignored him and crawled over to Guastafeste. He was stunned rather than unconscious.

‘Antonio? Antonio?'

Guastafeste groaned, one hand going to the gash on the side of his head. I helped him up into a sitting position. There was a thin trickle of blood on his cheek.

‘You okay?' I said.

Guastafeste nodded weakly.

I looked up at Scott. He was edging round us, trying to get to the violin case. He was too dangerous for me to risk tackling him on my own. I needed to distract him, to give Guastafeste time to recover.

‘How did you know?' I said. ‘Did you follow us?'

Scott paused. He gave a contemptuous laugh. ‘Highfield Hall. I was there just after you. The old lady told me about the painting. I'd already been to Casale, seen this church on the hill. I worked it out.'

‘And Tomaso Rainaldi? Why?'

‘He was stupid, naïve. He was in the way. An obstacle that had to be removed.'

Scott bent down and picked up the violin case. I felt the rage bubbling up inside me. I knew Scott was going to kill us too. I groped around on the floor and my fingers closed around the stem of the torch. Scott was turning away, moving back towards the door of the vault, his gaze momentarily distracted. I pushed myself to my feet and swung the torch round in a vicious arc. Scott was unprepared, slow. The torch smashed into the side of his head. He reeled and stumbled against the marble gatepost. His right wrist caught on the sharp edge of the post. The revolver fell from his grasp and skittered away across the floor. I hit him again. Scott lost his footing and fell over backwards, tumbling down the steps outside the vault. I heard a thud as his body hit the ground.

Guastafeste was standing up now. He pushed past me and staggered to the entrance of the vault.

‘Antonio?'

‘I'm all right.'

He steadied himself for a second, then stepped out. I went after him. Scott was kneeling up on the gravel path at the bottom of the steps, the violin case beside him. He looked up and saw us emerging from the vault. His face was pale in the moonlight, his mouth twisted into a savage snarl. He picked up the violin case and stood up, turning to run. Guastafeste didn't wait. He pushed off from the top of the steps, hurling himself out into space. His outstretched arms grabbed hold of Scott's legs and the two men crashed to the ground. Scott rolled over, kicking out with his foot. His shoe caught Guastafeste on the side of the head. Guastafeste shook it off and threw himself on top of Scott. Scott twisted sideways, writhing like a snake. One of his fists scythed round into Guastafeste's face. Guastafeste's head snapped back and he lost his grip on the dealer.

Scott grasped hold of the violin case and slithered away. Guastafeste groaned, one hand going to his temple. He had a nasty wound. He was losing blood. I had to do something. Then I remembered Guastafeste's revolver. I stepped back into the vault and picked up the torch. The beam lanced around the marble tombs. Where was it? I saw the dull gleam of gun metal in a corner and bent down. I hurried back outside. Scott was stumbling across the graveyard, Guastafeste a few metres behind him. The revolver clutched in my hand, I ran after them.

Scott was weaving between the gravestones, a shadowy figure in the darkness. Guastafeste was pursuing him doggedly, but losing ground. Scott was uninjured, younger, more agile. He was getting away.

‘Antonio!' I yelled. ‘Your gun.'

I saw Guastafeste pause, turning in my direction, then continue running. He couldn't afford to wait for me. I was out of breath, slowing. My lungs and knees were feeling their age. I lost sight of both Scott and Guastafeste as they disappeared behind a cypress tree. Then I heard a distant cry. A sudden, sharp exclamation, more surprise than pain. Whose voice had it been? I couldn't be sure. I came round the bend by the cypress tree and stopped abruptly. Guastafeste was standing on the path in front of me, looking down. Of Scott there was no sign.

‘Antonio.'

I held out the revolver. Guastafeste took it from me and let it dangle down by his side.

‘He slipped,' he said.

Only then did I realise where he was looking. By his feet was the freshly dug grave. I moved forward, directing the torch beam into the hole. Sprawled in the mud at the bottom, still clutching the violin case, was Christopher Scott. From the unnatural angle of his neck, the empty glaze over his eyes, there was no doubt that he was dead.

19

‘What are we going to do?' I said.

Guastafeste didn't reply. He walked over to a waist-high rectangular marble tomb and sat down wearily on the edge of it. He took out his handkerchief and held it to the gash in his head.

‘You need a doctor,' I said.

‘Later.'

‘Let me see it.'

‘It looks worse than it is.'

I examined his head in the torch light. ‘It will need stitches. We'd better get you to a hospital.'

‘I'll be okay. There are other, more pressing matters.'

I nodded and waited for him to continue. He looked at me. ‘This is more complicated than we expected. How far are you prepared to go?'

‘You don't think the truth will do?'

‘We've broken into a tomb illegally. Robbed a grave, I suppose. Someone has died. I can keep you out of it, Gianni, say I came here alone. But it will be the end of my police career, perhaps any career.'

‘That's too high a price to pay,' I said. ‘Scott was a killer. His death was accidental. We should have nothing on our consciences.'

‘Or I can make something up,' Guastafeste said. ‘Wipe our fingerprints from the vault. Say I followed Scott here, caught him breaking into it. There'll be a storm ahead, but I think I can weather it.'

‘And the violin?'

‘Who's to say Scott found anything in the vault?'

‘You mean we keep it?'

‘It has no legitimate owner. Cozio di Salabue gave it away to pay a debt. Paolo Anselmi stole it. Thomas Colquhoun was paid the money he was owed. Who does the violin really belong to? Technically you might say it ought to go to the State. But do you want a bunch of politicians in Rome to have it?'

I shivered. It was getting cold in the graveyard. I didn't want to remain there much longer.

‘I know what we have to do with it,' I said.

*   *   *

It was almost dawn when Guastafeste returned to our hotel room from the
Questura
in Casale. I was waiting up for him, still fully dressed. There hadn't seemed much point in going to bed. Guastafeste had a dressing over the gash on the side of his head.

‘How does it feel?' I said.

‘Sore, but not too bad.'

I opened the door of the mini bar and took out a miniature bottle of cognac. I poured the brandy into a glass and handed it to Guastafeste. He took a sip.

‘Thanks.'

‘How was it?' I said.

‘Tricky.'

‘Did they believe you?'

‘For the time being. I'm one of theirs. They want to believe me. The hard bit will come later when the investigating magistrate gets involved. By then I hope there'll be other developments.'

He drank some more cognac. ‘I've asked for a sample of Scott's DNA to be sent to Cremona. There was a spot of blood on the workbench in Tomaso's workshop which wasn't his. If it turns out to be Scott's, neither the Casale police nor my colleagues in Cremona will give a damn about the Anselmi vault or any violin.'

Guastafeste looked around the room and saw the violin case on my bed. ‘You haven't opened it?'

‘I was waiting for you.'

I went across to the bed and stared down at the case, unable to bring myself to touch it. This was the moment we'd been waiting for – for how long? Was it really only a couple of weeks? It is a cliché, I know, but I felt as if I had been waiting a lifetime. And perhaps I had. My mouth was dry. There was a sickness in my stomach: the nausea of anticipation, and maybe of fear, for I did not know what this moment would bring.

‘Come on, Gianni,' Guastafeste said. ‘This is your honour.'

It was an old-style violin case, of the type they used in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries when the instrument was inserted lengthwise into the end of the case rather than – as today – being placed under a hinged lid. My fingers found the fastening, fumbled with it, unable to open it. Guastafeste leaned past me and undid the simple metal catch. I murmured my thanks and took hold of the flap covering the opening. I glanced up. Guastafeste was utterly still, his gaze fixed intently on the case. I was almost paralysed by nerves. It might be empty, it might contain nothing but sawdust. I had to find out.

Closing my eyes, I lifted aside the flap and slid my hand inside the case. Just a short distance in I encountered something soft and yielding. It felt like a bag. I pulled it out and opened my eyes. It was indeed a cloth bag. I undid the drawstring and peered inside. It contained grains of rice, now swollen with moisture – protection from the damp and humidity that can destroy an instrument.