Brimstone

"Of course."

"What an unusual fu

"Unusual names are a tradition in my family."

Viola laughed. "Just as musical names were in mine. Now tell me about the Stormcloud. Where in the world did you find it? If you did really find it, that is."

"I'll tell you the whole story when I bring it to you. You'll play it-and then you'll know."

"It is too much to hope for. Still, I should love to hear it before I die."

"It would also clear your family name."

Maskelene laughed, waved her hand. "What rot. I hate being called Lady Maskelene, if you want to know the truth. Titles, family honor-that's nineteenth-century rubbish."

"Honor is never out of date."

She looked at Pendergast curiously. "You're a rather old-fashioned sort, aren't you?"

"I don't pay much attention to current fashions, if that's what you mean."

She looked his black suit up and down with an amused smile. "No, I suppose you don't. I rather like that."

Again Pendergast looked nonplussed.

"Well"-she stood up, her brown eyes catching the light off the water, a smile dimpling her face-"whether you find the violin or not, come back anyway and tell me about it. Will you?"

"Nothing would please me more."

"Good. That's settled."

Pendergast looked at her gravely. "Which brings me to the point of my visit."

"The big question. Ah." She smiled. "Go ahead."

"What is the name of that powerful family that once owned the Stormcloud?"

"I can do better than give you a mere answer." She reached into her pocket, removed an envelope, and laid it before Pendergast. In a lovely copperplate hand was written, Dr. Aloysius X. L. Pendergast.

Pendergast looked at it, his face draining of color. "Where did you get this?"

"Yesterday, the current Count Fosco-for that was the family that once owned the violin-paid me a surprise visit. Surprise is hardly the word-I was bowled over. He said you'd be coming, that you were friends, and that he wanted me to give you this."

Pendergast reached down and slowly picked up the envelope. D'Agosta watched as he slid his finger under the flap, tore it open, and pulled out a card, on which was written in the same generous, flowing hand:

Isidor Ottavio Baldassare Fosco,

Count of the Holy Roman Empire,

Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Quincunx,

Perpetual Arch-Master of the Rosicrucian Masons of Mesopotamia,

Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society, etc.,,,,,,,

desires the pleasure of your company

at his family seat,

Castel Fosco,

Sunday, November 4

Castel Fosco

Greve in Chianti

Firenze

Pendergast looked sharply at D'Agosta and then back at Lady Maskelene. "This man is no friend. He's extremely dangerous."

"What? That fat, charming old count?" She laughed, but the laughter died when she saw the expression on his face.

"He's the one who has the violin."

She stared. "It would be his, anyway-wouldn't it? I mean, if it were found."

"He brutally murdered at least four people to get it."

"Oh, my God-"

"Don't say anything to anyone about this. You'll be safe here, on Capraia. He would have killed you already if he thought it was necessary."

She stared back. "You're frightening me."

"Yes, and I'm sorry, but sometimes it's good to be afraid. It will be over in two or three days. Please be careful, Viola. Just stay here and do nothing until I return with the violin."

For a moment, she did not reply. Then she stirred. "You must go. You'll miss the ferry."

Pendergast took her hand. They stood quite still, looking at each other, saying nothing. Then Pendergast turned and quickly walked through the gate and down the trail.

D'Agosta leaned against the fantail of the ferry, watching the island dissolve on the horizon in much the same way it had appeared: with a sense of expectancy, of a fresh begi

"Fosco knew that you knew," said D'Agosta. "That's what saved her."

"Yes."

"This whole thing. It was just an elaborate plot to get the violin, wasn't it?"

Pendergast nodded.

"I knew from the begi

Pendergast didn't respond. His gaze was far away.

"Are you all right?" D'Agosta finally risked asking.

Pendergast started, looked over. "Quite all right, thanks."

The island had finally disappeared. As if on cue, the low outline of the Tuscan mainland began to materialize on the eastern horizon.

"What now?"

"I accept Fosco's invitation. It's one thing to know, quite another to have proof. If we want to get Fosco, we have to get whatever machine he used to commit these murders."

"So why did Fosco give you an invitation?"

"He wants to kill me."

"Great. And you plan on accepting?"

Pendergast turned away and gazed back out to sea, his eyes almost white in the brilliant light. "Fosco knows I'll accept, because it's the only chance to gather the evidence we need to put him behind bars. If we don't do it now, he will be back to haunt us next month, perhaps, or a year from now, or ten years .    " He paused. "And what's more, he'll always be a danger to Viola-Lady Maskelene-for what she knows."

"I get it."

But Pendergast was still looking out to sea. When he spoke again, his voice was very low. "It ends tomorrow, in the Castel Fosco."

{ 73 }

 

Bryce Harriman sat at the old table, taking notes in the harsh light of a Coleman lantern, the Reverend Buck across from him. It was almost midnight, but he wasn't the least bit sleepy. The day before, he had filed a crackerjack story, about the failed attempt to arrest Buck. He had pieced it together from a half dozen witnesses, and it was juicy: the swaggering police captain coming in to arrest Buck, how he'd panicked and run, leaving it to the other captain-a woman-to straighten things out. Great copy. In the long run, it might turn out to be more than just great copy: he'd begun putting out feelers at the Times , and they seemed receptive to a job interview. This new article would be gravy. And thanks to Buck, he was now the only journalist allowed in the tent city. With this second piece appearing hot on the heels of the first, he was going to score a double whammy. And he would be there tomorrow, too, just in case there was a showdown with New York's finest.

Judging from the mood in the camp, it was going to be a mess. Since the botched arrest, the whole place had been on edge, restless, belligerent, like a powder keg ready to go. Even at midnight, more than a day after the would-be raid, everyone was still awake, the prayers and camp meetings sounding shrilly through the darkness. A lot of the kids he'd noticed on his first visit to the tent city were gone-a night or two of sleeping on the hard ground, without an Internet co