Brimstone

Pendergast nodded. "What kind of device?"

"Some device meant to torch Va

"Bravo."

"Your theory?"

"I reached the same conclusions. Va

Now the ferry was slipping past surf-scoured volcanic cliffs and into a small harbor. A row of crumbling houses, stuccoed yellow and red, crowded the quay, hillsides rising steeply behind them. The ferry maneuvered into port, and a single car and a scattering of passengers got off. Almost before D'Agosta's feet were on firm ground, it was backing out again and heading to its next stop, the island of Elba.

"We have four hours before the ferry returns on its homeward swing." Pendergast pulled out a little piece of paper, scrutinized it. "Lady Viola Maskelene, Via Saracino, 19. Let's hope we find la signorina at home."

He set off down the quay toward a bus stop, D'Agosta at his side. Within moments, an old orange bus wheezed into view, struggled to turn around in the lone narrow street, then opened its doors. They boarded; the doors creaked shut; and the bus began groaning and wheezing its way back up the frighteningly steep slope that seemed to rise straight out of the foaming sea.

In five minutes, they were in the village at the far end of the road. The doors creaked open again and they descended. An ancient peach-colored church sat on one side, a tobacconist on the other. Cobbled lanes ran off at odd angles, too narrow to admit a car. A giant, ruined castle, completely overgrown with prickly pears, dominated the headland before them. Behind the village mounted a series of empty, scrub-covered mountains.

"Charming," said Pendergast. He pointed at a street sign, carved on an old marble plaque and cemented into the wall of a building, reading Via Saracino. "This way, Sergeant."

They walked down a lane between small whitewashed houses, the numbers mounting slowly. Soon the town ended and the lane turned to dirt, bounded by stone walls enclosing garden plots of small lemon trees and microscopic vineyards. The air carried the scent of citrus. The lane made a sharp curve, and there-at the edge of the cliff, all by itself-stood a neat stone house shaded by bougainvillea, overlooking the blue immensity of the Mediterranean.

Pendergast slipped down the path, entered the patio, and knocked on the door.

Silence.

"C'è nessuno?" he called.

The wind sighed through the rosemary bushes, carrying the fragrance of the sea with it.

D'Agosta looked around. "There's someone over there," he said. "A man, digging." He nodded toward a small, terraced vineyard a hundred yards away, where a figure was turning earth with a spade. The man was wearing a battered straw hat, old canvas pants, and a rough shirt unbuttoned partway down the front. Seeing them, the person straightened up.

"Correction: a woman digging." Pendergast set off down the path with a vigorous step. Reaching the vineyard, they stepped gingerly through clods of freshly turned earth. The woman watched them approach, leaning on her shovel.

Pendergast paused to offer the woman his hand, giving his usual little half-bow. In response, she removed her straw hat, shook out a mass of dark glossy hair, and took the hand.

D'Agosta froze. This is no middle-aged woman.

She was stu

After a moment, he realized Pendergast, after having bowed, had straightened again but seemed rooted to the spot, still holding her hand, saying nothing but looking into her eyes. The woman appeared to be doing the same. There was a moment of utter stillness. D'Agosta wondered if they had known each other before-it almost seemed as if they recognized each other.

"I am Aloysius Pendergast," Pendergast said after a long moment.

"I'm Viola Maskelene," she replied in a rich, warm English accent.

As they released each other's hand, D'Agosta realized Pendergast had uncharacteristically forgotten to introduce him. "And I'm Sergeant Vincent D'Agosta, Southampton Police."

The woman turned to him, as if noticing him for the first time. But the smile she gave him was full of warmth. "Welcome to Capraia, Sergeant."

Another awkward silence. D'Agosta glanced at Pendergast. He had a most uncharacteristic look of surprise on his face, as if somebody had just dropped a scoop of ice cream down his back. What was going on?

"Well," said Lady Maskelene with another smile, "I assume you're here to see me, Mr. Pendergast?"

"Yes," he said hastily. "Yes, we are. It concerns-"

She held up her finger. "A hot vineyard is no place to have a civilized conversation. Let's go back to my house and enjoy something cool on the terrazza , shall we?"

"Yes, of course."

She smiled again: a dazzling, dimpled smile. "Follow me." She set off across the field, her big boots clomping through the clods of earth. The terrazza was shaded by a pergola draped with wisteria, and bordered by blooming rosemary and miniature lemon trees. It was like being perched on the edge of the known world, the cliffs dropping away to an infinity of blue, stretching to the horizon and merging imperceptibly with the sky. The expanse was broken by a single, tiny black reef, about a mile offshore, which only served to increase the sense of distance, of infinity.

Lady Maskelene seated them around an old tiled table, in battered wooden chairs, and then disappeared into the house. A minute later she returned with a wine bottle without a label, filled with a pale amber liquid; some glasses; a bottle of olive oil; and a battered clay platter heaped with thick pieces of rough-cut bread. She set down the glasses and, moving around the table, filled them with white wine. As she passed D'Agosta his glass, he caught her faint scent, a perfume of grapevines, earth, and the sea.

Pendergast took a sip. "Is it yours, Lady Maskelene?"

"Yes. The olive oil is mine also. There's something marvelously satisfying about working your own piece of ground."

"Complimenti."  Pendergast took another sip, dipped a piece of the rough bread in a dish of olive oil. "Excellent."

"Thank you."

"Allow me to tell you why we've come, Lady Maskelene."

"No," she said in a low voice, looking not at him, but far out to sea, her hazel eyes almost blue in the intense light, a strange smile on her lips. "Don't spoil this .     particular moment just yet."

D'Agosta wondered just what particular moment she might be talking about. The faint sound of surf and the cries of seagulls drifted from the edge of the cliff.

"What an enchanting villa you have here, Lady Maskelene."

She laughed. "A villa it is not-just a simple seaside bungalow. That's why I love it. Here I have my books, my music, my vines, my olive trees-and the sea. What more could you ask for?"

"You mentioned music. Do you play an instrument?"

A hesitation. "The violin."

Now we're getting somewhere, thought D'Agosta. As usual, Pendergast was sliding into the subject sideways.

"You are here year-round?"

"Oh, no. I'd get bored. I'm not that much of a recluse."

"Where do you spend the rest of your time?"