Brimstone

Colo

"I misjudged you, sir," he said in a low, chill voice. "I welcomed you here, gave you credentials, cooperated with you in every way  In return, you disgraced yourself and humiliated me and my men  I will be lucky if the count doesn't bring a denuncia against me for this invasion of his home and insult to his person."

He leaned a little closer. "You may consider all your official privileges revoked from this moment on. The paperwork to have you declared persona non grata in Italy will take a little time-but if I were you, signore, I would leave this country by the next available flight."

Then he sat back, stared stonily out the window, and spoke no more.

{ 86 }

It was approaching midnight when Count Fosco finished his evening constitutional and, puffing slightly, returned to the main dining salotto of the castle. Whether in town or country, it was his habit, before turning in, to take a short stroll for his health's sake. And the long galleries and corridors of Castel Fosco offered an almost endless variety of perambulations.

He took a seat in a chair facing the vast stone fireplace, warming his hands before the merry blaze, dispelling the damp embrace of the castle. He'd take a glass of port and sit here awhile before retiring: sit here, and contemplate the end of a successful day.

The end, in fact, of a successful undertaking.

His men had been paid off and had all melted away, back into the huts and tenant farmhouses of his estate. The small detachment of police had gone, along with Sergeant D'Agosta and his fire and bluster. The man would soon be on a flight back to New York. The servants would not return until the next morning. The castle seemed almost watchful in its silence.

Fosco rose, poured himself a glass of port from a bottle on an ancient sideboard, then returned to his comfortable chair. For the past few days, the walls of the castle had rung with noise and excitement. Now, by comparison, they seemed preternaturally quiet.

He sipped the port, found it excellent.

It was a great pity, not having Pinketts, or rather Pinchetti, here to anticipate his every need. It was a great pity, to think of him at rest in an unmarked tomb within the family vault. The man would be difficult, even impossible, to replace. Truth to tell, sitting here by himself, in this vast empty edifice, Fosco found himself feeling just the least bit lonely.

But then, he reminded himself, he was not alone. He had Pendergast for company-or, at least, his corpse.

Fosco had faced many adversaries in the past, but none had shown the brilliance or tenacity of Pendergast. In fact, had it not been for Fosco's home soil advantages-his moles in the police and elsewhere, the maturity of his long-laid plans, the scope of his contingency arrangements-the story might well have ended differently. Even so, he'd felt just the least bit anxious. And so Fosco had made sure this evening's constitutional took him back down-very deep down indeed-to Pendergast's current domicile. Just to make sure. As expected, he'd found the newly mortared but carefully disguised wall as he left it. He'd rapped on it, listened, called softly, but, of course, there was no answering response. Almost thirty-six hours had passed. No doubt the good agent was already dead.

He sipped the port, sank back in the chair, basking in the reflections of a successful outcome. There was, of course, one loose end: Sergeant D'Agosta. Fosco reflected on the fury, the impotent murderous rage, on the policeman's face as he'd been led off the grounds. Fosco knew this rage would soon fade. And in its place would come first resignation, then uncertainty, and then-ultimately-fear. Because by now D'Agosta surely must know the kind of man he was dealing with. He, Fosco, would not forget. He would snip off that loose end, finish the business, make D'Agosta repay the debt he incurred for shooting Pinchetti, and in so doing retrieve his clever little invention.

But there was no hurry. No hurry at all.

As he sipped his port, Fosco realized there was, in fact, a second loose end. Viola, Lady Maskelene. He thought of her, tending her bit of vineyard, strong limbs made tawny by the Mediterranean sun. Her bearing, her movements, had a mix of good breeding, catlike athleticism, and sexuality he found deliciously intoxicating. Her conversation sparkled like no other woman's he had met. She was bursting with vitality. She would bring warmth to any place she visited-even Castel Fosco .

A faint sound, like the scurry of dead leaves on stone, came from the darkness beyond the room.

Fosco paused in mid-sip.

Slowly, he put the glass down, stood, and walked to the main entrance to the salotto . Beyond lay the long gallery, lit only by the moon and the occasional wall sconce. Long ranks of suited armor lined the walls, glowing faintly in the pallid light.

Nothing.

Fosco turned thoughtfully. The old castle was full of rats; it was high time he had the head gardener in again to deal with them.

He began walking back toward the fire, feeling a chill that could not entirely be explained by the cool air.

Then he stopped again. There was one thing, he knew, that would put him in fine high spirits.

Taking a tack away from the fire, he made for the small doorway that led into his private workshop. He crossed the dark room, threading his way through a maze of lab tables and freestanding equipment, until he reached the wooden paneling of the rear wall. He knelt, ran one fat hand along the polished wainscoting, found a tiny detent. He pressed it. One of the wooden panels above his head popped ajar with a faint snick. Rising, the count pulled the panel wide, exposing a large safe retrofitted into the stonework of the wall. He punched a code into the safe's keypad, and its door sprung open. Carefully, reverently, the count reached inside and pulled out the small, coffin-shaped wooden case that held the Stormcloud Stradivarius.

He carried the case into the dining salotto and placed it on the table against the wall, well away from the heat of the fire, leaving it closed, so it would slowly accustom itself to the change in temperature. Then he returned to his seat. Compared to the chill of the lab, it was deliciously warm before the fire. He took another sip of port, thinking about what he would play. A Bach chaco

After a few minutes, he rose again, walked over to the violin, undid the brass fastening, and lifted the lid. He did not play it, not yet: it would need at least another ten minutes to adjust to the ambient temperature and humidity. He merely gazed dotingly on its wondrous and mysterious finish, its sensual lines. Staring at the violin, Fosco felt a joy, a sense of completion, flood through him.

He returned to his comfortable chair, loosened his cravat, undid his waistcoat. The Stormcloud was back where it belonged: in the family seat. He had snatched it from the jaws of oblivion. It had been worth the expense, the extravagant pla