Brimstone

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In the elegantly appointed dining room within the main massing of the Castello Fosco, the count waited, quite patiently, for his dinner. The walls of the fifteenth-century villa were extremely thick, and there was no sound at all save the faint mechanical whirring of Bucephalus from a white T-stand nearby, applying his artificial beak to an artificial nut. The stately windows of the room looked out over a spectacular landscape: the hills of Chianti, the deep valley of the Greve. But Fosco was content to sit in his heavy oak chair at one end of the long table, reviewing-with delicious tranquillity-the events of the day.

His reverie was broken by the shuffle of feet in the passageway. A moment later his cook, Assunta, appeared, bearing a large serving tray. Placing it at the far end of the table, she presented the dishes to him one by one; a simple maltagliati ai porcini ; oxtail, servedalla vaccinara ;fegatini grilled over the fire; a contorno of fennel braised in olive oil. It was the simple, homely fare his cook excelled at and Fosco preferred while in the country. And if Assunta's presentation lacked the polish and subtlety of Pinketts-that, alas, could not be helped.

He thanked her, pouring himself a glass of the estate's exceptional Chianti Classico as she left the room. And then he applied himself to his dinner with relish. Although he felt famished, he ate slowly, savoring every bite, every mouthful of wine.

At last, meal complete, he rang a small silver bell that lay near his right hand. Assunta reappeared.

"Grazie," he said, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a huge linen napkin.

Assunta curtsied a little awkwardly.

The count rose. "Once you have cleared away, you may take a few days off."

The cook glanced at him inquiringly without raising her head.

"Per favore, signora. It has been months since you visited your son in Pontremoli."

The curtsy deepened. “Mille grazie."

"Prego. Buona sera.” And the count turned lightly on his heel and left the dining room.

Once the cook had departed, the castle would be empty of servants. His men had done their work and departed. Even the groundskeepers had been given a few days' absence. Only Giuseppe, the ancient dogmaster, remained on the estate: as it happened, he could not be spared.

It was not that Fosco distrusted his retainers: they all had ancient ties to his family, some going back as far as eight hundred years, and their loyalty was without question. It was simply that he wanted to finish this business undisturbed.

He moved slowly and purposefully through the huge rooms of the castle: the alone ; the hall of portraits; the hall of armor. His stroll took him back through time: first, through the older, thirteenth-century additions, then into still older chambers, built half a millennium earlier. Here there was no electricity, no modern conveniences such as plumbing or central heating. The warren of small, windowless rooms grew dark and oppressive, and Fosco stopped to pull a torch from a wall sconce and light it. Turning to an ancient worktable nearby, he picked up something else and tucked it into his waistcoat. Then he took a side passage and continued on and down: down into a subterranean warren of tunnels cut into the living rock.

Many of the extensive basements of the Castello Fosco were taken up with the production of the estate. A great many rooms were devoted to winemaking: filled with bottling machinery and fermentation vats, or with countless small barrels of French oak. Others were given over to the aging of boar hams: deep, cool spaces from whose ceilings hung countless hams, still covered in coarse fur. Still others were used for storing olive oil or making balsamico . But here-far beneath the bulk of the castle's stronghold-there were no such large and well-ventilated spaces. Narrow vaults dug deeply into the beetling cliff face of limestone, and stairs corkscrewed down toward old wells and chambers unused for half a millennium.

It was one of these staircases that Fosco now descended. The air was chill, the walls slick with damp. The count slowed further: the hand-cut steps were slippery, and if he fell there would be nobody to hear his cries.

At last, the staircase ended in a labyrinth of narrow vaults, lined in ancient brick. Niches were cut into the walls, and each contained a skeleton: some long-deceased family member or-more likely, given the sheer number-fallen allies from wars fought a millennium ago. The air was bad here, and Fosco's torch guttered as he threaded his complex path.

As he penetrated deeper into the maze, the ancient walls grew more uneven. He passed several places where they had fallen away from the rock, leaving heaps of scattered bricks. Skeletons lay in thick profusion, as if dumped and abandoned where they lay, the bones chewed and scattered by rats.

The vault finally ended in a cul-de-sac. The darkness here was so thick, so complete, that Fosco's torch barely penetrated. He took another step forward, waved the torch in a cautious arc into the last recess ahead of him.

The guttering flame revealed the figure of Agent Pendergast, head lolled forward onto his chest. His face was scratched and bleeding in a dozen places. His normally immaculate black suit was shredded and dirty, the jacket lying in a heap at his feet. His hand-tailored English shoes were covered in thick Tuscan mud. He appeared unconscious and would have sunk to the ground before Fosco if not for the heavy chain bound tightly across his chest. This was fixed to an iron staple set into the limestone wall, and was padlocked to a second iron staple on Pendergast's far side. His wrists hung limply at his sides, secured by additional lengths of chain fixed to the rear wall of the niche.

Fosco's first sweep of the torch had been a careful one. He had learned, even now, not to underestimate his opponent. But Pendergast was clearly immobilized, helpless. Emboldened, the count brought the torch forward again.

As the light of the torch crossed his face, Pendergast stirred. His eyes fluttered open.

Instantly, Fosco stepped back. "Agent Pendergast?" he crooned. "Aloysius? Are we awake?"

Pendergast did not answer, but his eyes remained open. He moved his limbs weakly, flexed his manacled hands.

"Please forgive me, but I'm afraid the restraints are necessary. As you shall soon understand."

When there was no response, the count continued. "You no doubt feel weak, barely able to stir. And you may be experiencing a certain degree of amnesia. Phenobarbital does have that effect at times: it seemed the easiest way to return you to the castle without undue exertions. So allow me to refresh your memory. You and the good sergeant D'Agosta grew tired of my hospitality and desired to leave. I, naturally, took objection. There was a nasty struggle, I'm afraid, in which my beloved Pinketts perished. You had deposited some paperwork I was obliged to reclaim. Then came your escape attempt. Sergeant D'Agosta made good his escape, I fear. But the important thing is that you’re back, my dear Agent Pendergast: back safely again in the bosom of Castel Fosco! And I insist you remain here, as my guest. No, really-I'll hear no objection."

Fosco placed the torch carefully into an iron wall mounting. "I beg your pardon for the scant accommodation. Still, these chambers are not without their natural charm. You'll notice the white webwork that gleams from the cavern walls? It's nitre, my dear Pendergast-you of all people should appreciate the literary allusion. And thus understand what is to follow."

And to underscore this, the count slipped his hand into his waistcoat and slowly withdrew a trowel.

Staring at it, Pendergast's dull, drug-heavy eyes gleamed briefly.

"Aha!" the count cried, pleased. "It is not lost on you! Let us then proceed with all haste." And turning to one side, he swept away a heap of tumbled bones, revealing a large quantity of freshly slaked mortar.

Using the trowel, he laid a thick line of mortar along the front lip of the recess. Then he moved to one of the piles of collapsed brick and, two at a time, brought the bricks back to the niche, laying them carefully in a line atop the mortar. Within a few minutes, the first course of bricks was in place and Fosco was troweling another layer of mortar along its top.

"How wonderful these bricks are!" he said as he worked. "They are many centuries old, made from the very clay of the hillside. See how massive: none of your trifling English bricks for Fosco! I've called for a great deal of lime in the mortar-nearly two parts lime to each part sand-but then I want your final habitation to be as strong as possible. I want it to last through the ages, my dear Pendergast. I want it to last until the final trump is sounded!"

Pendergast said nothing. But his drug-clouded eyes had cleared. They watched Fosco work with an almost feline stoicism-if, Fosco reflected, stoicism was the correct word. Finishing the second course of bricks, he paused to return the gaze.

"I've been preparing this for some time," he said. "Quite some time, in fact. You see, ever since our first meeting-at the memorial service for Jeremy Grove, when we had our little disagreement over the Ghirlandaio panel-I realized you were the most formidable opponent I had ever faced."

He paused, waiting. But still Pendergast said nothing, did not move except to blink his eyelids. And so Fosco returned to his work and-with the energy of a sudden surge of anger-laid the third, fourth, and fifth course of bricks.

When he laid the last brick of the sixth course in place, he paused once more. The brief anger had passed and he was again himself. The wall reached now to Pendergast's waist. Throwing back the tails of his coat, Fosco perched daintily on the old pile of bricks to rest. His gaze fell almost kindly on the prisoner.

"You'll note I'm laying the bricks in Flemish bond, alternating the headers with the stretchers," he said. "Beautiful, is it not? I could have been a mason, perhaps, had I so chosen. Of course, building such a wall is time-consuming. Consider it my final gift. My parting gift. You see, once the last brick is in place, it will not take long-perhaps a day, perhaps two, depending on how much air seeps through these ancient walls. I am no sadist. Your death will not be unduly prolonged-though I imagine slow suffocation in the dark might not be quite as merciful as one would hope. It cannot be helped."

He sat for a moment, catching his breath. Then he went on, his voice now almost meditative.

"Do not think, Signor Pendergast, I take this responsibility lightly. I realize that by entombing you here, I rob the world of a great intellect. It will be a duller place without you. However, it will also be safer, for me and those like me: men and women who would prefer to pursue their destinies unfettered by laws devised by their inferiors."

He glanced into the recess. With the wall half complete, the niche lay in deepest shadow. Only the gaunt lines of Pendergast's bloodied face reflected in the torchlight.

The count looked at him quizzically. "Still nothing? Very well: let us continue." And he pulled himself to his feet.

The next three tiers were laid in silence. Finally, as Fosco put the last brick of the ninth course in position and smoothed fresh mortar across its top, Pendergast spoke. The wall had reached the level of his pale eyes, and his voice echoed hollowly inside the new-made vault.

"You must not do this," he said. His voice had none of its usual creamy, almost lazy precision.

This, Fosco knew, was a side effect of the phenobarbital. "But my dear Pendergast, it is done!" He troweled off the mortar and returned to the brick pile.

The tenth course was half laid before Pendergast spoke once more. "There is something I must do. Something unfinished, of great importance to the world. A member of my family is in a position to do great harm. I must be allowed to stop him."

Fosco halted, listening.

"Let me complete that task. Then I will return to you. You . you may then dispose of me as you see fit. I give you my word as a gentleman."

Fosco laughed. "Do you take me for a fool? I am to believe you shall return, willingly, like Regulus to Carthage, to meet your end? Bah! Even if you do keep your word, when should I expect you? Twenty or thirty years from now, when you have grown old and tired of life?"

No answer came from the darkness of the niche.

"But this task you mention. It intrigues me. A family member, you say? Give me more details."

"Free me first."

"That is impossible. But come-I see we are simply bandying words. And I weary of this task." And more quickly now, Fosco finished the tenth course and started on the eleventh and last.

It was when only a single stone remained to be fitted and mortared into the wall that Pendergast spoke again. "Fosco"-the voice was faint, sepulchral, as if emerging from the deepest recesses of a tomb-"I ask you, as a gentleman and a human being. Do not place that brick."

"Yes. It does seem a shame." And Fosco hefted the final brick in his hand. "But I'm afraid the time has come for us to part. I thank you for the pleasure of your company these last few days. I say to you, no tarrivederla, butaddio. " And he forced the last stone into place.

As he smoothed away the last bit of excess mortar, Fosco heard-or thought he heard-a sound from the tomb within. A low moan, or exhalation of breath. Or was it just the wind, crying through the ancient catacombs? He pressed his head to the freshly laid wall and listened intently.

But there was nothing further.

Fosco stepped back, kicked a pile of scattered bones into position before the wall, then grabbed the torch and made his way hastily through the rat's nest of tunnels to the ancient stairwell. Reaching it, he began to climb-a dozen steps, two dozen, three-heading for the surface and the warm evening sunlight, leaving the restless netherworld of shadows far behind.