Brimstone

"Good nap?" He wondered how Pendergast could sleep at a time like this. He felt so keyed up it seemed he'd never be able to sleep again.

"I wasn't napping, Vincent-I was thinking."

"Yeah. So was I. Like how are we going to get out of this place?"

"Surely you don't think I have brought us in here without a well-conceived plan of departure? And if my plan does not work, I am a great believer in improvisation."

"Improvisation? I don't like the sound of that."

"These old castles are full of holes. One way or another we'll escape with the evidence we need and return with reinforcements. Reinforcements that will only be convinced by the evidence. Coming here, Vincent, was our only option-aside from giving up."

"That's not an option in my book."

"Nor in mine."

There was a knock at the door. It opened and Pinketts stood there, in full livery. D'Agosta's hand drifted toward his service piece.

Pinketts gave a slight bow and said, in his plummy English, "Di

They followed him back down the staircase and through a series of rooms and passageways to the dining salotto . It was a cheerful space, painted yellow, with a high vaulted ceiling. The table had been laid with silver and plate, an arrangement of fresh roses in the middle. There were three places set.

Fosco was standing at the far end of the room, where a small fire burned in the grate of an enormous stone fireplace, surmounted with a carved coat of arms. He turned quickly, a little white mouse scampering over his fat hand and ru

"Welcome." He put the mouse away in a small wire pagoda. "Mr. Pendergast, you will sit here, on my right; Mr. D'Agosta on my left, if you please."

D'Agosta seated himself, edging his chair away from Fosco. The count had always given him the creeps; now he could hardly stand to be in the same room. The man was a fiend.

"A little prosecco ? It is my own."

Both men shook their heads. Fosco shrugged. Pinketts filled his glass with the wine, and the count raised it.

"To the Stormcloud," he said. "Pity you can't toast. Have some water, at least."

"Sergeant D'Agosta and I are abstaining tonight," replied Pendergast.

"I have prepared a marvelous repast." He drained the glass and, on cue, Pinketts brought out a platter heaped with what looked to D'Agosta like cold cuts.

"Affettati misti toscani,"said Fosco. "Prosciutto from boar taken on the estate, shot by myself, in fact. Won't you try some? Finocchiona and soprassata , also from the estate."

"No, thank you."

"Mr. D'Agosta?"

D'Agosta didn't answer.

"Pity we don't have a dwarf handy to taste the food. I so dislike eating alone."

Pendergast leaned forward. "Shall we leave the di

"But I insist."

"Your insistence means nothing. We will go when we choose."

"You will not be leaving-tonight, or any other night, for that matter. I suggest you eat. It will be your last meal. Don't worry, it isn't poisoned. I have a much cleverer fate in mind for you both."

This was greeted by silence.

Pinketts came and poured a glass of red wine. The count swirled it in his glass, tasted it, nodded. Then he looked at Pendergast. "When did you realize it was me?"

Pendergast's reply, when it came, was slow. "I found a fragment of horsehair at the site of Bullard's murder. I knew it came from a violin bow. At that point, I recalled the name of Bullard's boat: the Stormcloud . It all came together: I realized then that this case was merely a sordid attempt at theft through murder and intimidation. My thoughts naturally turned to you-although I'd long been sure the business went beyond Bullard."

"Clever. I didn't expect you to put it together so quickly-hence the unseemly rush to kill the old priest. I regret that more than I can say. It was u

"'U

"Spare me the moral absolutism." Fosco sipped his wine, folded a piece of prosciutto onto his fork, ate it, recovered his good humor. He glanced back at Pendergast. "As for me, I knew you were going to be a problem within five minutes of encountering you. Who'd have expected a man like you would go into law enforcement?"

When he didn't receive an answer, he raised his glass in another toast. "From the very first time I met you, I knew that I would have to kill you. And here we are."

He took a sip, set down the glass. "I had hoped that idiot Bullard would pull it off. But, of course, he failed."

"You put him up to that, naturally."

"Let us just say that, in his frightened condition, he was susceptible to suggestion. And so now it is left to me. But first, don't you think you should congratulate me on a beautifully executed plan? I extracted the violin from Bullard. And as you know well, Mr. Pendergast, there are no witnesses or physical evidence to co

"You have the violin. Bullard once had it. That can be established beyond the shadow of a doubt."

"It belongs to the Fosco family by legal right. I still have the bill of sale, signed by Antonio Stradivari himself, and the chain of ownership is beyond question. A suitable period will pass following Bullard's death; then the violin will surface in Rome. I've pla

"I can guess."

"On October 31, 1974, in the early afternoon, while on my way out of the Biblioteca Nazionale, I ran into a group of callow American students. You know the type-they throng Florence all year long. It was the afternoon of All Hallows' Eve-Halloween to them, of course-and they'd been drinking to excess. I was young and callow myself, and I found them so astonishingly vulgar that they amused me. We fell in for the moment. At some point, one of the students-Jeremy Grove to be precise-went on a tear about religion, about God being rubbish for the weak mind, that sort of thing. The sheer arrogance of it a

Fosco laughed silently, his capacious front shaking.

"They all roundly denied the existence of the devil. I said I had friends who dabbled in the occult, who had collected old manuscripts and that sort of thing, and that, in fact, I had an old parchment which contained formulas on how to raise Lucifer himself. We could settle the question that very night. The night was perfect, in fact, being Halloween. Would they like to try it? Oh, yes, they said. What a marvelous idea!"

Another internal disturbance shook Fosco's person.

"So you put on a show for them."

"Exactly. I invited them to a midnight séance in my castle, and then rushed back myself to set it all up. It was a great deal of fun. Pinketts helped-and, by the way, he isn't English at all, but a manservant named Pinchetti who happens to be both a clever linguist and a lover of intrigue. We had only six hours, but we did it up rather well. I've always been a tinkerer, a builder of machines and gadgets, and incidentally a designer off uochi d'artificio -fireworks. There are all sorts of secret passageways, trapdoors, and hidden panels in the cellars here, and we took full advantage of them. That was a night to remember! You should have seen their faces as we recited the incantations, asked the Prince of Darkness to bring them great wealth, offered their souls in return, pricked their fingers and signed contracts in blood-especially when Pinketts activated the theatrics." He leaned back, pealing with laughter.