Brimstone

{ 75 }

The car came around a final turn and passed the ruined outer gate. The castle rose above them in its stern and immense majesty. They proceeded down an avenue of cypress trees with massive ribbed trunks and stopped at a parking area just outside the inner curtain. D'Agosta peered at this wall through the passenger window with deep misgiving. It towered twenty feet over his head, its great sloping buttresses streaked with lime, dripping moss and maidenhair ferns. There was no gate in this inner wall, just a spiked and banded pair of wooden doors at the top of a broad stone staircase.

As they got out of the car, there was a humming sound, followed by a deep scraping noise, and the doors opened at an invisible cue.

They mounted the stairs, passed through a hulking doorway, and stepped into what seemed like another world. The smooth lawn of the inner ward ran for a hundred yards to the skirt of the castle itself. To one side of the lawn lay a large, circular reflecting pool surrounded by an ancient marble balustrade, ornamented at its center by a statue of Neptune astride a sea monster. To the right stood a small chapel with a tiled dome. Beyond was another marble balustrade overlooking a small garden that stepped down the hillside, ending abruptly at the fortified inner wall.

There was another scraping noise, and the ground trembled; D'Agosta turned to see the great wooden doors rumbling closed behind them.

"Never mind," murmured Pendergast. "Preparations have been made."

D'Agosta hoped to hell he knew what he was talking about. "Where's Fosco?" he asked.

"We'll no doubt see him soon enough."

They crossed the lawn and approached the main entrance of the massive keep. It opened with a creak of iron. And there stood Fosco, dressed in an elegant dove-gray suit, longish hair brushed back, his smooth white face creased with a smile. As always, he was wearing kid gloves.

"My dear Pendergast, welcome to my humble abode. And Sergeant D'Agosta, as well? Nice of you to join our little party."

He held out his hand. Pendergast ignored it.

The count let the hand drop, his smile unaffected. "A pity. I had hoped we could conduct our business with courtesy, like gentlemen."

"Is there a gentleman here? I should like to meet him."

Fosco clucked disapprovingly. "Is this a way to treat a man in his own home?"

"Is it any way to treat a man, burning him to death in his own home?"

A look of distaste crossed Fosco's face. "So anxious to get to the business at hand, are we? But there will be time, there will be time. Do come in."

The count stood aside, and they walked through a long archway into the castle's great hall. It was quite unlike what D'Agosta had expected. A graceful loggia ran along three sides, with columns and Roman arches.

"Note the Della Robbiatondi ," said Fosco, gesturing toward some painted terra-cotta decorations set into the walls above the arches. "But you must be tired after the drive down. I will take you to your quarters, where you can refresh yourselves."

"Our rooms?" Pendergast asked. "Are we spending the night?"

"Naturally."

"I'm afraid that won't be necessary, or even possible."

"But I must insist." The count turned and seized an iron ring on the open castle door, drawing it shut with a boom. With a dramatic flourish, he removed a giant key from his pocket and locked it. Then he opened a small wooden box mounted on the nearby wall. Inside, D'Agosta saw a high-tech keypad, wildly out of place amidst the ancient masonry. The count punched a long sequence of numbers into the keypad. In response, there was a clank, and a massive iron bar shot down from above, sliding into a heavy iron bracket and barring the door.

"Now we are safe from unauthorized invasion," said Fosco. "Or, for that matter, unauthorized departure."

Pendergast made no answer. The count turned and, moving in his peculiar light-footed way, led them through the hall and into a long, cold stone gallery. Portraits, almost black with age, lined both walls, along with mounted sets of rusted armor, spears, lances, pikes, maces, and other medieval weaponry.

"The armor is of no value, eighteenth-century reproductions. The portraits are of my ancestors, of course. Age has obscured them, fortunately-the counts of Fosco are not a pretty race. We have owned the estate since the twelfth century, when my distinguished ancestor Giovan de Ardaz wrested it from a Longobardic knight. The family bestowed the title 'cavaliere' on itself and took as its coat of arms a dragon rampant, bar sinister. During the time of the grand dukes, we were made counts of the Holy Roman Empire by the electress palatine herself. We have always led a quiet existence here, tending our vines and olive groves, neither meddling in politics nor aspiring to office. We Florentines have a saying: The nail that sticks out gets hammered back in. The House of Fosco did not stick out, and as a result, we never felt the blow of the hammer during many, many shifts of political fortune."

"And yet you, Count, have managed to stick yourself out quite a bit these past few months," Pendergast replied.

"Alas, and much against my will. It was only to recover what was rightfully ours to begin with. But we shall talk more of this at dinner."

They passed out of the gallery and through a beautiful drawing room with leaded-glass windows and tapestried walls. Fosco gestured toward some large landscape paintings. "Hobbema and van Ruisdael."

The drawing room was followed by a long series of graciously appointed, light-filled chambers, until quite suddenly the character of the rooms changed abruptly. "We are now entering the original, Longobardic part of the castle," Fosco said. "Dating back to the ninth century."

Here the rooms were small and almost windowless, the only light admitted by arrow ports and tiny, square openings high on the walls. The walls were calcined, the rooms bare.

"I have no use for these dreary old rooms," said the count as they passed through. "They are always damp and cold. There are, however, several levels of cellars, tunnels, and subbasements below, most useful for making wine, balsamico , and prosciutto di cinghiale . We hunt our own boar here on the estate, you know, and it is justly famous. The lowest of those tunnels were cut into the rock by the Etruscans, three thousand years ago."

They came to a heavy iron door, set into an even heavier stone wall. Deeper within the castle, D'Agosta could see that the stonework was beaded with moisture.

"The keep," Fosco said as he unlocked the door with another key.

Immediately inside was a wide, windowless circular staircase that corkscrewed its way up from the depths and curved out of sight above their heads. Fosco removed a battery-powered torch from a wall sconce, turned it on, and led the way up the stairs. After five or six revolutions, they stopped at a small landing containing a single door. Opening it with yet another key, Fosco ushered them into what looked like a small apartment, retrofitted into the old castle keep, its tiny windows overlooking the valley of the Greve and the rolling hills marching toward Florence, far below. A fire burned in a stone fireplace at one end, and Persian rugs covered the terra-cotta floor. There was a comfortable sitting area in front of the fire; a table to one side well furnished with wines and liquors; a wall of well-stocked bookshelves.

"Eccoci quà! I trust you will find your chambers comfortable. There are two small bedrooms on either side. The view is refreshing, don't you think? I am concerned that you brought no luggage. I will have Pinketts furnish you with anything you might need-razors, bathrobes, slippers, sleeping shirts."

"I very much doubt we will be staying the night."

"And I very much doubt you will be leaving." The count smiled. "We eat late, in the Continental fashion. At nine."

He bowed, backed out of the door, shutting it with a hollow boom. With sinking heart, D'Agosta heard a key rasp in the lock, and then the footsteps of the count disappearing quickly down the stairway.