Brimstone (Pendergast #5)(17)

“Very,” said Pendergast. “I have heard much about you, Count Fosco.”

The count smiled.

“I believe you and Grove have been friends a long time?”

“We shared a love of music and art, and that highest marriage of the two: opera. Are you by chance a lover of opera?”

“I am not.”

“No?” The count arched his eyebrows. “And why not?”

“Opera has always struck me as vulgar and infantile. I prefer the symphonic form: pure music, without such props as sets, costumes, melodrama, sex, and violence.”

It seemed to D’Agosta the count had gone stock-still. But then he realized Fosco was laughing silently, visible only from an internal convulsion. The laugh went on for quite a long time. Then he wiped the corners of his eyes with a handkerchief and patted his plump hands together lightly, in appreciation. “Well, well. I see you are a gentleman with firm opinions.” He paused, leaned toward Pendergast, and began to sing in a low tone, his deep bass voice barely keeping above the noise of the room.



Braveggia, urla! T’affretta

a palesarmi il fondo dell’alma ria!



He paused, leaned back, beaming around. “Tosca, one of my favorites.”

D’Agosta saw Pendergast’s lips tighten a little. “Shout, braggart,” he translated. “What a rush you’re in to show me the last dregs of your vile soul!”

The group became still at what appeared to be an insult directed at the count. But the count only broke into a smile himself. “Bravo. You speak Italian.”

“Ci provo,” said Pendergast.

“My dear fellow, if you can translate Puccini that well, I should say you do much better than merely trying. So you dislike opera. I can only hope you are less of a philistine when it comes to art. Have you had a chance to admire that Ghirlandaio over there? Sublime.”

“Getting to the case,” said Pendergast, “I wonder, Count, if you could answer a few questions?”

The count nodded.

“What was Grove’s mood on the night of his death? Was he upset? Frightened?”

“Yes, he was. But come, shall we take a closer look?” The count moved toward the painting. The others followed.

“Count Fosco, you were one of the last people to see Jeremy Grove alive. I would appreciate your help.”

The count patted his hands together again. “Forgive me if I seem flippant. I want to help. As it happens, your line of work has always fascinated me. I’m an ardent reader of English mysteries; they are perhaps the only thing the English are good for. But I must confess myself unused to being the subject of detection. Not an altogether agreeable feeling.”

“It is never agreeable. What makes you think Grove was upset that night?”

“Over the course of the evening, he couldn’t sit still for more than a few minutes. He hardly drank at all, a striking departure from his usual habits. At times, he spoke loudly, almost giddily. Other times he wept.”

“Do you know why he was upset?”

“Yes. He was in fear of the devil.”

Lady Milbanke clapped her hands in an excess of excitement.

Pendergast peered at Fosco intently. “And what makes you think that?”

“As I was leaving, he asked me a most peculiar question. Knowing I was Catholic, he begged to borrow my cross.”

“And?”

“I loaned it to him. And I must admit to being a trifle alarmed about its safety since reading the morning papers. How may I retrieve it?”

“You can’t.”

“And why not?”

“It’s been entered into evidence.”

“Ah!” the count said, relieved. “But in time I may retrieve it, yes?”

“I don’t see why you’d want to, save perhaps the jewels it held.”

“And why is that?”

“It’s been burned and melted beyond all recognition.”

“No!” the count cried. “A priceless family relic, passed down for a dozen generations. And it was a present to me from my nonno, on my confirmation!” He mastered himself quickly. “Fate is a capricious thing, Mr. Pendergast. Not only did Grove die a day too soon to do me an important service, but he took my prized heirloom as partner to his destruction. So goes life.” He dusted his hands. “And now an exchange of information, perhaps? I have satisfied your curiosity, you satisfy mine.”

“I regret I can’t talk about the case.”

“My dear sir, I don’t speak of the case. I speak of this painting! I would value your opinion.”

Pendergast turned to the painting and said, in an offhand way, “I detect the influence of the Portinari Triptych in those peasants’ faces.”

Count Fosco smiled. “What genius! What foresight!”

Pendergast inclined his head slightly.

“I speak not of you, my friend, but of the artist. You see, that must have been quite a feat, since Ghirlandaio painted this little panel three years before the Portinari Triptych arrived in Florence from Flanders.” He beamed, looking around at his audience.

Pendergast coolly returned the gaze. “Ghirlandaio saw the studies for the painting which were sent to the Portinari family five years before the altarpiece arrived. I’m surprised, Count, to find you not in possession of that fact.”