Brimstone (Pendergast #5)(137)

“Thank you, sir.”

A beat. “Hayward, are you sure this plan of yours is going to work?”

“No, sir.”

Rocker smiled. “That’s all I wanted to hear—a little goddamned humility for a change.” His eyes raked the rest of them, then returned to Hayward. “Go to it, Captain.”





{ 72 }


D’Agosta looked out at the vague outlines of the island looming off the ferry’s port bow, rising steep and blue from the sea, shimmering slightly in the midmorning light. Capraia: outermost of the Tuscan islands, a mountaintop lost in the wide ocean. It looked unreal, almost fairylike. The Toremar car ferry chiseled its way forward, squat steel bows stubbornly parting the turquoise water as it plowed toward its destination.

Pendergast stood beside D’Agosta, sea breeze ruffling his blond hair, his finely cut features like alabaster in the glare of the sun. “A most interesting island, Vincent,” he was saying. “Once a prison for the most dangerous and intelligent criminals in Italy—Mafia capos and serial escapees. The prison closed in the mid-sixties, and now most of the island is a national park.”

“Strange place to live.”

“It is actually the most charming of all the Tuscan islands. There is a small port and a tiny village on a bluff, connected by the island’s only road, which is all of half a mile in length. There’s been no ugly development, thanks to the fact that the island doesn’t have any beaches.”

“What’s the woman’s name again?”

“Her name is Viola Maskelene. Lady Viola Maskelene. I couldn’t find out much about her on short notice—she’s a private person. It seems she spends her summers on the island, leaving at the end of October. Travels the rest of the year, or so I’ve been informed.”

“You sure she’s home?”

“No. But I prefer to take the chance of surprising our quarry.”

“Quarry?”

“In an investigative sense. We’re dealing with a sophisticated and well-traveled Englishwoman. As the only great-grandchild of Toscanelli’s greatest love, she is in the best position to know the family secrets.”

“She might be a tough nut to crack.”

“Quite possibly. Hence the surprise approach.”

“How old is she?”

“I assume middle-aged, if my calculations are correct.”

D’Agosta glanced at him. “So what’s the family story?”

“It was one of those torrid nineteenth-century affairs one reads about. The stuff of opera. Viola Maskelene’s great-grandmother, a famous Victorian beauty, married the Duke of Cumberland, thirty years her senior and as cold and correct a man as you could find. Toscanelli seduced her only a few months after her marriage, and they carried on a legendary affair. An illegitimate daughter came of the union, and the poor duchess died in childbirth. That child was Lady Maskelene’s grandmother.”

“What did the duke have to say about all that?”

“He may have been cold, but he also seems to have been a rather decent sort. After his wife’s death, he took steps to legally adopt the child. The greater titles and estates were entailed away, but the daughter inherited a lesser title and some land in Cornwall.”

The ferry throbbed beneath their feet, and the island seemed to gain weight and substance as they approached. As they stood silently, Pendergast drew the test tube out of his pocket. He held it up, the melted droplets taken from Vanni’s corpse the night before glittering in the sun. “We haven’t spoken yet about these.”

“Yeah. But I’ve been thinking about them.”

“So have I. Perhaps, Vincent, the time has come at last for each of us to turn over a card.”

“You first.”

Pendergast smiled faintly and held up a finger. “Never. As the officer in charge, I reserve the right to call your hand.”

“Pulling rank on me?”

“Precisely.”

“Well, I’d say those drops came from some device which malfunctioned, spraying molten metal into Vanni and burning him terribly.”

Pendergast nodded. “What kind of device?”

“Some device meant to torch Vanni. Same device that killed the others. But in Vanni’s case, it didn’t seem to work, so he had to be shot afterwards.”

“Bravo.”

“Your theory?”

“I reached the same conclusions. Vanni was an early victim—perhaps a test subject—of a highly specialized killing device. It appears we are dealing with a flesh-and-blood assassin, after all.”

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.